


The Littleton Job

by FortinbrasFTW



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Multi, Pre-game AU, Small Towns, kid franklin, kid lamar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortinbrasFTW/pseuds/FortinbrasFTW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years before Ludendorf, Michael and Trevor head east to try for a big score in a small New England town, with some interesting cover stories in place to pull it off. Needless to say, robbing banks becomes a little more tricky when you're faking a long term domestic partnership, accidentally adopting two vagrant kids, and trying (and succeeding a little too well) to blend into that small town lifestyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Welcome to Littleton,” Trevor reads as the sign flashes past. “Is that a fucking joke? Sounds like a town run by damn puppets between 9 and 10AM on Saturday morning.”

Michael rolls his eyes for what feels like the seventieth time that morning. “Yeah. It’s a puppet town. You got me.”

“Seriously though,” Trevor stretches back in the seat. He’s little too tall for the car even though it suits Michael just fine; his spindly legs are bunched up against the dashboard, manner looking especially wired and edgy in the new surroundings. “This doesn’t creep you out? Like _at all_?”

“What doesn’t creep me out?” Michael asks.

“ _This_!” Trevor exclaims, glaring out the window as they slip past little old New England houses with colonial doors and leaf-scattered front lawns. “Everything’s so damn… _pristine_. Place like this are for postcards, not for people. At least not _real_ people.”

“Oh yeah, what?” Michael asks. “People like you?”

“Damn right, people like me.”

The car continues on, curling along worn-in country roads that feel as settled as the thick maple trees resting on the sides and scattering fiery leaves across their path.

“It’s a nice town. What’s so bad about that?” Michael asks.

“‘Nice town’,” Trevor snorts, “yeah. Right.  Looks like the type of place where scarecrows come to life in the night to harvest the hearts of the village children.”

“Look,” Michael says, “it’s a job. Just like any other job.”

“Oh yeah?” Trevor smirks raising an eyebrow. “Just like any other job? _Honey_?” 

Michael flinches. Christ. That was going to get old real fast. Michael gives him half a glare.

“What?” Trevor grins back, mustache curling up with the corners of his mouth. “You’d better get used to it, pork chop.”

“Look,” Michael insists, “a cover story’s a cover story alright, you don’t have to method act this thing.”

“Fine, fine, maybe not,” Trevor shrugs. “But don’t you think we should get a few things straight before heading into this damn L.L. Bean catalog?”

Michael shifts in his seat. “What sort of things?” 

“Oh, you know,” Trevor continues, obviously enjoying the hell out of himself, “little things: how’d we meet, pet names, how’d you like your coffee, what side of the bed is yours. All the classics.”

“There won’t be any damn sides of the bed,” Michael insists, “and what makes you think anyone’s going to be wondering about half this shit anyways?”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Trevor pushes back. “We’re the ‘new couple’ and distracting enough with our vagrant sexualities to be above suspicion?”

“Yeah well, I won’t be vagranting any sexualities, thanks,” Michael turns the wheel around a tight corner. “No one’s going to ask which side of the bed you sleep on. We’re not doing pet names because why the hell would we. And you know how I take my fucking coffee. Keep it simple. Doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“How about how we met? That’s a guarantee.”

“We met the way we met. Keep it simple.”

“We met the way we met? What? Minus the gun, running and murder?”

“That’s right.”

“Mm, too bad. Doesn’t leave much of a story.”

“Leaves enough alright. Whatever, come up with your own. I don’t care.”

“In a bit of a mood there, hun? I told you to keep that blood sugar up. You always get so cranky driving this long,” Trevor grins sickly.

“Fuck off,” Michael snaps.

Trevor keeps his smile, leaning back into the seat and trying to fit his skinny legs better against the dashboard. He shakes his head with a ragged little laugh. “I still can’t believe you even agreed to this.”

“Yeah well, it’s a job alright? Maybe not _exactly_ like any other job, but each score’s unique.”

“‘Unique’,” Trevor repeats. “That’s generous, this is a fucking moon-shot at best, and you know it.”

“Look, Lester said—“

“‘Lester said’,” Trevor mocks, exactly like the five year old he is. “Yeah, well, I don’t give a fuck what four-eyes dug up while doing his morning shit and crossword puzzles. _This_ is not what _we_ do. Right? We should be holding up bookies on a fight night, not Stepfording our asses off in this suburban freak-show.”

“Oh yeah? Lester ever been wrong about a score before?”

“Well I’ve never been fucked by a bear but that doesn’t mean I’m going to dunk my junk in molasses and wander ass-naked into the woods, does it?”

Michael stares. “What _the fuck_ does that mean?”

“It means fuck what you’re good at and don’t ask for trouble, alright?”

“Christ,” Michael turns back to the road with a shake of his head, “that philosophical well just doesn’t dry up, huh?”

“You better believe it.”

The car rolls past an older man walking his dog by the side of the road. He’s wearing a warm looking plaid jacket and walking a small white dog with one hand. With the other he smiles and gives the car a wave. Trevor sneers, raising his own hand in return. Michael catches it just in time. 

“What?” Trevor complains. “Just being neighborly?”

“Yeah? That your neighborly finger there?”

“Was in my neighborhood,” Trevor leans back in the seat, crossing his arms across his chest.

“We’re not in your fucking neighborhood. We’re here to _blend_ , right? Mingle. Remember?”

“Mingle. Yeah. What? Wanna start planning the damn holiday party right now?”

“Hey, if we have to,” Michael says.

“‘If we have to’, Christ,” Trevor says caustically. “Look at you, you’re loving this aren’t you? Little vacation, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, ‘cause shacking up with your ass, the damn model of humanity God accidentally dropped when he banged into the counter, is exactly my idea of a damn vacation,” Michael says. “Look, I don’t like it any more than you do, but I’m not gonna pretend it won’t be nice to not have to look over my shoulder every five minutes.”

“ _That_ ,” Trevor insists, rolling his mullet against the headrest to face him, “is complete bullshit.”

“No, Trevor,” Michael continues with A Tone, “that is what the rest of us call Self-Preservation, although I know that concept fucking eludes you.”

“It’s called _hiding_ , Mikey. And it’s fucking beneath you.”

Michael can’t help feeling himself prickle at that. “Yeah, well whose damn fault is it that Jimmy Flynn and his whole pipe-wielding, finger collecting, inbred gang is out for blood, huh?”

“Well, they shouldn’t have been giving you attitude.”

“We were _negotiating_ , Trevor!”

“ _So was I_ ,” Trevor insists.

“Right, right, so that was what? A counter-point? Smashing his brother’s face in in the middle of the damn conversation?”

Trevor shrugs loosely. “What can I say? His brother was an annoying little entitled shit. Too many of those wandering around. _Really_ , it was community service.”

“Oh yeah? In the form of using the damn whiskey bottle they brought to cave in his face? That sort of community service?”

“Well, what was I supposed to do? They took my gun at the door, _and_ the knives. _Which_ I didn’t get back, by the way. Good hosts, my fucking ass.”

“Oh yeah, well I’m sure they would have given them back to you after they cut our faces off and dropped us in the nearest lake for crabs to digest.”

“Is that it?” Trevor says, eyeing him with that taunting amber glint to his gaze. “You’re _afraid_ of Lucky Charms and his goons?”

“ _Yes_ , alright. And I should be - that’s a healthy amount of fucking caution. Those are exactly the type of people you _should_ be afraid of. Unlike you, I actually like my face attached to my skull, thanks very much.”

“We could take them,” Trevor says sternly.

“Yeah,” Michael agrees, “yeah, we could. And we will. When it’s right. When we’re ready. Not when they’re foaming at the mouth to use your appendages for hood decorations.”

“Mmm, they’d make pretty nice hood decorations. Have to admit.”   
   
Michael rolls his eyes. Again. Perfect. That’s exactly the type of mindset that will blend right into this kind of a place.

“Christ,” Trevor continues to glare out the window. “Now _this_ is what happens when they get too much fluoride in the water supply.”

They’ve curled into the center of the town by now. Michael slows down as they move past little shops on one side and what looks like a town green on the other. There are people wandering the streets in plaid and fleece and wool, with red cheeks and cheery expressions, canvas totes and brown paper bags in their gloved hands. The shops lean comfortably against each other with that worn-in, well-situated New England feel to them. It’s different from the Midwest out here, that’s for sure. Out there things felt like they’d just been dropped onto the landscape, like someone shook the buildings out of their pocket and just forgot to pick them up again. Here it feels like the buildings grew right up out of the ground with the trees.

It’s fall. Apparently, from what he heard the folks at the gas stations on the way here say, something called “peak foliage”, which really just adds to the whole perfect damn picture of the place. 

He’s sure as hell not going to admit it out loud, but there is something a little unsettling about it all. The colors are so damn bright, almost impossibly so. And he’s pretty sure the sky should not be that blue, and the grass should not be that green, and trees should not look brighter than fucking fire. Maybe it’s probably just “contrast” or whatever, everything feels brighter because the stuff around it is daring it to, but the effect is still dazzling enough that it hardly feels real at all. Just like Trevor said, like it should be slapped on a postcard, not staring right back at you, face to face.  

“It is something, huh?” Michael can’t help saying as he leans forward to peer up and out at the trees littering the green.  “These fucking colors. You ever seen anything like this?” 

Trevor rolls his eyes. “Yes. And it’s better in Canada.”

“That’s some touching national pride there, Trev.”

“Fuck off.”

Michael ignores him, taking in the rest of the town center as he circles the car around the green. There’s a small river that runs along the far side of the green. The building of an old wooden mill sits along it, with a historical attitude of something preserved and not really used for work any longer, maybe just for “demonstration purposes” and exceptionally dull school trips. There’s a little white gazebo in the middle of the green, which is probably compulsory in little towns like this, just like the church that sits opposite the shops, stolid and beaming in the October cool sunshine.

“Seriously though,” Michael continues, “is the sky supposed to be that fucking blue?”

“See,” Trevor grins, “I knew it was creeping you out.”

“Yeah, alright. Maybe. A bit.”

“Ah, look – here,” Trevor suddenly sings. “Is this our _big score_?”

Michael glances out his window. A little old bank sits nestled into the north-east corner of the street, gazing demurely at the mill diagonal from it. It’s a marble building, and at least a century old by the look of it. It looks… tired, like an old man making up for mild income with austerity. The rain has stained the marble in streaks and the clock on the front of the building decided 9:46 was a good time to stick to, probably half a century ago by the rusted look of the arms.   

Trevor whistles sarcastically. “Would you look at that, huh? Well, this is it, isn’t it? After this, we can pack up and head south to kick up our feet and shoot alligators off the porch.”

“It’s not the bank, remember?” Michael says for the tenth time in the past twenty-four hours. “It’s the opportunity it presents.”

“Yeah,” Trevor snorts, “and I’m the philosophical asshole.”   

“Yeah great, look, can you check those directions?” Michael asks. “I think we’re close.”

“What directions?” Trevor asks, still gazing out the window without making a bit of effort.

Michael grumbles and snatches them off the dashboard himself, glancing at the last few scribbled lines.   

“Shit yeah, we’re real close,” Michael turns the wheel south, heading down a road behind the town center, where a little road sign reads “Maple Street” back to them.

“Of course we’re close,” Trevor grumbles. “Right in the heaving bosom of the god-fearing neighborhood.”

“Here we go!” Michael announces, ignoring him with easy practice.

Trevor’s head swivels to look as the car pulls up onto the crunch of the lower drive and Michael kills the ignition.

“Home, sweet home,” Michael grins, popping open his door.

Trevor clambers out of his side onto the lawn as Michael stretches, crisp air sneaking in under his denim jacket.

It’s a Nice Little House. When people read nice little house in real estate descriptions, he’s pretty sure that whatever they’re picturing is some version of what they’re standing in front of. It looks like the fleshed out version of the house that kids try to draw when they’re little: square, clapboard sidings, square windows, triangle roof, door right in the middle, all facing you with an attitude like a friendly dog. 

There’s a wide and simple yard that loops around the front to the back where it probably lounges out for more room, and there’s even a few of those big fat maple trees standing proudly in the vivid green grass, steadily dropping brilliant leaves every couple of seconds.

Trevor glares at the place like it’s leaking toxic waste. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Hello there!” a voice calls.

Michael turns, just in time to see two chipper faces heading towards them from the road. 

“Welcome wagon, six o’clock,” Trevor growls.

And hell, ready or not, here they go.

Michael clears his throat. He gives Trevor a good glare before plastering on his best smile. “Hey!”

“Have we been waiting for _you_!” the woman pronounces.

“Back in the car, _now_ ,” Trevor mutters.

Michael just manages not to hiss “shut up” right back at him.

“That right?” Michael says instead. 

“That’s for sure,” the man agrees. They’ve reached them now. Two of them, a man and a woman, maybe just a little older than them, mid-thirties or so. 

They look like they came in a boxed set. A couple straight off of health insurance flyers: beaming fitness, tall and upright, with smoothed down haircuts and shining white teeth, picture perfect, right down to their matching hiking boots.

The man extends a hand almost too eagerly. “I’m Tim, and this is Sarah. We’re your neighbors just around the corner there.”

Michael takes the offered hand. “Michael Stern, and this is Trevor.”

Trevor eyes the man’s hand before shaking it, probably a little too hard by Tim’s expression and leaning back against the trunk of the car, attention narrow and suspicious.

“We’ve been watching the movers unpack all yesterday without a sign of you, but I suppose moving is such a hassle,” the woman says, “there’s no reason to be part of all that fuss.”

“Real neighborhood watch you got going here, huh?” Trevor says.

Michael elbows him. “He’s kidding. Real kidder.” 

“Oh, of course,” Sarah grins a little too widely.

Michael can’t help but notice that they’re staring at them in a very particular sort of way, like their looking for something they aren’t quite finding.

“And I’ll admit,” she continues, “we were being a little nosey. It’s a beautiful house and Mister Barnaby was such a part of the community. We were wondering who would snatch the place up, and when Carol said she’d sold it to a nice…” she hesitates, “young couple, well, we were very excited to finally meet you.”

“Thanks,” Michael says stiffer than he means. He can’t help it. The way she’s eyeing him is making him uneasy, like when cops look you over for hints if you’re carrying. “It’s good to be here. Nice town.” 

“It sure is at that,” the man chimes in. He’s got the sort of voice that runs for senator all on its own. “What do you two, uh, do for work?”

Michael hesitates before the easy answer slide into place. “I’m a writer.”

“Oh _really_ , god, how interesting!”

“Not really,” Michael says. “Mostly just sitting around trying to come up with something new.”

“But you’re creative. That’s _really_ something.”

Michael squints, trying to clear the patronizing out of his ears.

“And what about you. Trevor? Right?” Sarah asks.

Trevor glares levelly back at them, arms crossed over his patched parka. “I’m a housewife.”

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

The couple blinks. “Oh, that’s—“ And Christ, he almost feels sorry for them. Almost.

“Well,” Sarah recovers first, “ _we’re_ very glad to have you.”

Michael hears the emphasis easily enough and hell, maybe this was a bad idea after all, but it’s too late now, isn’t it.

He peels a practiced warm smile over his face. “Thanks, Sarah. Appreciate it.”

“Did you know that the owner of that house is a bit of a local story these past few months?” Sarah tries to recover.

Michael watches carefully, feigning surprised interest. “Oh? That so?”

“Oh, yes! Someone will show you the news clippings I’m sure. Apparently, Mister Barnaby knew of a _secret entrance_ that led into the vault of our old bank in town. And as he was dying he told someone in the town the secret to ‘pass it on’. They even found it in his will that he planned to do just that!” Sarah inhales, excitement bubbling out of her expression. “The story goes that he was told the secret by someone when he was younger when they died, and it always has to ‘stay in the town’ but never be known to anyone besides that one member of the community. Isn’t it just like something out of a movie!”

Yes, it was. Michael had a thing for movies like that, probably had something to do with the way his life had turned out this far. Well, that, and the usual ingredients of shitty childhood, arrogance, and all too easy opportunities for anyone willing to grab them. 

“Very mysterious,” Michael says.

“Oh yeah,” Trevor agrees. “Little hard to believe though.”

“What do you mean?” Tim asks.

“Well, why wouldn’t he just tell everyone? You could seal it up. Avoid this whole lovely little town getting swindled in the night by vandals and hooligans.” Michael notices he pronounces the last few words with a particular sense of enjoyment. 

“Well, yes, I suppose, but,” Sarah tries, “that would spoil the mystery. It’s a Town Secret! Nice to have one of those.”

“Mmm, right, of course,” Trevor says.

“Anyway, it’s all insured these days, huh?” Tim grins.

“Sure is,” Trevor agrees with a glib smile.

“And we’re a little short of vagrants and hooligans around these parts,” Sarah laughs.

Trevor gazes back at her. “Lucky you.”

“Lucky you!” Tim adds. “It’s your town now too, isn’t it?”

“Suppose so,” Michael says.

“It’s such a lovely house, even if it is a bit run-down. That’s what happens though when people get a little older. It’s hard to make the effort. I always thought it was a bit of a shame. But now that _you_ two are here, I’m sure you’re going to turn it around in no time.”

“That so?” Trevor says, raising a jagged eyebrow

“Oh yes! I’m sure you’ll do something wonderful with it,” Sarah continues on, undaunted. 

“Yeah, well, better get inside,” Michael says genially, “make sure the movers got everything in okay.”

“Oh, yes, sorry for chatting your ears off here!” Sarah continues. “But we just wanted to be sure we said ‘hello’.”

“And feel free to pop by anytime,” Tim adds. “I run The Junco, the little outdoor shop on the green. Happy to set you up with anything you need to enjoy what’s left of the fall here – or get ready for winter. And Sarah’s the local doc, just down Pine Street west of the green.”

“Great,” Michael holds his smile firmly. “See you later then.”

“See you!” They wave as they head back down the street.

“Friendly,” Michael notes as they vanish around the corner.

“Oh yeah. Real friendly.” Trevor agrees. “And they’re not the only ones.” He nods across the street.

Set back across the road is a house a little larger than theirs with a fenced porch and a few tall, thick maples. There’s an older couple standing behind their glass front door, staring at them with skeptical focus. Michael decides not to wave.

“Great. This is going to go great.” He turns back to Trevor. “Housewife? Seriously?”

Trevor smiles back. “Writer? Seriously?”

“Christ,” Michael sighs, turning towards the house, “let’s just get inside and make sure Lester stashed the guns right. Ready to start planning how to rob our little community right into the ground?”

“Damn right,” Trevor grins. 


	2. Chapter 2

The damn place even smells quaint. All wood polish and new furniture and something that reminds Trevor of made-for-TV Christmas movies.

The door swings shut behind them, as he follows Michael inside. Trevor gives it a good kick on the way to make sure it’s nice and tight. He can still feel the wheedling stares of that couple of Swedish mannequins itching against his skin.

He sniffs, glaring around at the inside of the house. It’s exactly as bad as he was expecting. Possibly even worse. It looks just like something out of an advertisement pushing lilac scented dryer sheets. He narrows his eyes around the living room, which the front door opens into. The place looks as bright and chipper as a coked up kids TV host. There’s white furniture. Actually damn white, on top of the sort of beige middle-class carpet just asking for an infomercial. A big dark wood coffee table sits in the middle of the room, classic suburban television staring back at it with a fireplace underneath. There are coasters on the coffee table in the shape of maple leaves. He actually has to focus for a minute before remembering what coasters are actually for and rolls his eyes as soon as he remembers. Books pack bookcases built into the wall opposite the couch, rows and rows of damn books, with shiny unused spines. Come to think of it, they’re probably playing a major part in that obnoxious quaint smell permeating utterly everything.

There are a few larger framed photos hung up on the off-white walls. Pastoral shit. Which hardly makes any kind of sense. Why would people living in the country need damn pictures of it? Isn’t that what windows are for? Although, hell, that probably fits the whole “image” just right, doesn’t it? Seems like the exact sort of bullshit newly countrified yuppies would do. Yuppies. That was the idea, wasn’t it? What they were supposed to be? God fucking help him.

No framed pictures of them sitting on end tables, between bookends. Of course not. But that’s a mistake. Isn’t that what “homes” are supposed to have? Snapshots of sickly smiling faces, sticky memories slapped down under glass. That’s how these places always looked on TV or in magazines anyways. Well, they’d have to skip that little detail. They didn’t exactly live the type of lives that you wanted to present to your neighbors in a nice bamboo frame.  

“The fuck are you doing in there?” Michael’s voice sounds from a few rooms back.

Trevor sniffs at the decor one last time and follows the sound of Michael’s voice.

He finds Michael grinning at the kitchen. “Check it out.”

Trevor moves his eyes around the room. “It’s a kitchen.”

“Oh come on, Trev,” Michael continues, still beaming, “that all?”

Trevor looks again. “It’s a big kitchen.”

“It’s _huge_ , and do you see these countertops?” Michael insists, running a hand over some stony looking stuff stuck to the tops of the counters.

Trevor can’t help smirking. “ _’Do you see these countertops?’_ Do _you_ hear the shit that’s leaking out of your mouth?”

“Fuck off,” Michael tosses back, apparently not at all bothered. “Come on man, even you have to admit it’s a pretty nice place.”

“Yeah,” Trevor says. “A Nice Place. That’s exactly what it fucking is. I hate Nice Places. They’re nothing but lies and bullshit. Illusions wrapped around capitalist fucking fantasies. This whole place looks like a damn sitcom set.”

“Good,” Michael says, “that’s exactly what it needs to look like.”

“Christ, _why_?” Trevor complains. “Are we throwing open the doors? Starting a book-club? Cause I’m sure everyone is just dying to cozy up to the new neighborhood queers.”

““Yeah,” Michael pulls open the fridge. A shiny row of glass bottle beers stares back at them. He grabs one. “Cause you’re making a _great_ impression already. Really blending right in.”

“I don’t blend in,” Trevor says firmly, eyeing the beer. “That’s exactly the opposite of what I fucking do.”

“Then you’re gonna have to get used to it,” Michael says, sliding one of the bottles across the counter to him.

Trevor snatches it. “Oh yeah? Then what? That’s the point here? ‘Blending in’, well smart-ass, if that was the point let me tell you this cover story isn’t exactly cutting it.”

“So you’d rather just be two single guys living together in a nice suburban house? Cause that wouldn’t get people wondering.”

“Doubt it,” Trevor sniffs, “can you imagine anyone with more than half a fucking brain being content with, shit, _this_?”

“With what?” Michael frowns critically. With his heavy cynical brow and square jaw, he always looks twice as cold and hard when he does that. Fucking ironic. He probably thinks he blends right in here, looks just like another damn country boy. He never did realize how much of his soul shows clear as anything right across his face.

“This town, this _lifestyle_ ,” Trevor continues blithely. He knocks the cap off his beer on the side of the counter, leaving a neat dent. Michael frowns at it. And yeah, that isn’t going to get old _extremely_ fast. “ _This_ is the sort of place people go to die.”

“Right, cause those two out there looked just like fucking corpses,” Michael nods towards the driveway.

“They are. If they look it or not,” Trevor continues. “Trust me. People in places like this, all they want to do is watch the days slip right the fuck by, one at a time. It’s not living. It’s dying. Just one day at a time.”

“Very fucking zen,” Michael rolls his eyes. He leans over, peering down at the cabinets like he’s looking for something.

“What’s that?” Trevor asks, watching him.

“Hold the fuck on,” Michael answers. He finally pulls open the cabinet under the sink, fiddling about as if he’s looking for something, then with a small unsticking sort of noise he pulls his hand back. He drops a heavy, reliable-looking .9mm pistol and a packet of papers down on the counter.

Trevor reaches for the gun casually, but Michael gets there first, easily pulling it into his hand and checking the magazine and the chamber. Trevor watches how Michael’s hands carry through the practiced motions with hardly any thought at all. Funny. He remembers the first time he saw him do that. He’d been impressed; impressionable little shit that he was. To see a kid his age, as comfortable with guns as Trevor was with the stick of a plane. It had made a mark, that’s for sure. Months later, he’d stayed up hours the night before their first job, trying to get as fast as it as Michael was. He’s still not that fast. Probably never will be. But that didn’t matter, did it? What mattered was having the guts to actually pull the trigger when the time came, and even if he didn’t aim as fast or shoot as clean as Michael, Trevor always had that. The guts. He’d always have that. Least it was something.

“Don’t I get one?” Trevor asks.

“You mean besides the three in the car?”

“Hey, I’m a proponent of some solid home defense.”

Michael’s thin lips twitch into a smile. It’s barely noticeable. It’s the way he always smiles when he doesn’t really think he should. “There’s another one in the bathroom. Least that’s what Lester said.”

“What’s that?” Trevor asks, taking a pull off the beer and eyeing the pack of papers.

Michael secures the gun back under the sink. “Info. Intelligence.”

Trevor snorts. “’Intelligence’. That’s optimist. You and Lester really have this one all figured out, huh? This secret - vault, homoerotic - unicorn of a fucking heist.” 

There’s that escaped smile again. Trevor can’t help smiling back. “You gonna take pot-shots, or actually listen to what we’re gonna pull here?” Michael asks.

Trevor shrugs, taking another slug of the beer. “I can do both.”

Michael grumbles, sliding the papers on the counter apart and eyeing them critically. He’s got his Tactic’s Face on now, all serious and focused. Trevor’s tempted to knock his beer off the counter and see whether he notices in time, but he resists the urge.

“This is when you try and convince me this isn’t a master fuck of wasted time?” he asks finally.

Michael glares at him. “You ready to fucking listen?”

“Oh, intently,” Trevor grins.

Michael sighs, as if he’s tempted to not say a damn thing, just to show him. But he can’t help himself. He never can. Always all too eager to share his majestic fucking criminal genius with anyone dumb enough to listen.

“You heard the story, out there, from your welcoming committee.”

“I heard a town myth that barely passes as interesting, even in a shithole like this.”

“It’s not a myth,” Michael continues, that little light sparking behind his dark blue eyes, the light that always kicks in when he’s talking about jobs. Smug fucking gangster that he is. “Lester found a story,” Michael continues, “exactly like this one, from sixty years ago. Old man dies. Tells the story to one person in the town. Says they have to do the same thing. And here it comes again, just like before, only it’s another old man dying. The only one who knew cause he was told last time.”

“Still pushing it,” Trevor says, “who knows if it’s even fucking true? And hell, even if it is? Why do we care? This isn’t exactly a booming metropolis of damn commerce? What do you think they have in that vault? A hundred thousand, on a good day?”

“On a good day, probably. But this town’s got another little secret. One they aren’t putting in the papers,” Michael continues.

“Save me the fucking suspense,” Trevor says.

“Notice anything about this location?”

“It’s north. East. Look, I’m not playing damn I Spy here, Mikey.”

“It’s north of Liberty City, south of the border. Out of the way and unsuspecting.”

Something catches in Trevor’s mind. “Transfer location?”

Michael smiles back. “Once a year. Capital Investments brings a deposit to the border. They drop it off, at an unsuspecting out-of-the-way little bank at night, and in the morning, a whole friendly twelve hours later, your northern brethren pick it up and take it the rest of the way.”

Trevor’s focused now, leaning onto the counter to peer at the papers. “What sort of deposit?”

“Depends on the year.”

“You got a fucking hunch?”

Michael’s narrow eyes shine. “Ten million. In gold.”

Trevor leans back, letting that sink in. He runs his thumb up the side of his beer, clearing aside the condensation.

“Alright. Then why this whole song and fucking dance, bullshit myths and dinner parties? Why not just bust right in there and snatch the stuff?”

“They keep it guarded. And well. Military shit, locked and loaded.”

“Who cares? We can take it. We’ve handled shit before.”

“No, we haven’t,” Michael insists firmly. “Because it’s damn stupid to ‘handle shit’ when you don’t have to. This secret entrance isn’t a myth. There’s a way in. A way right in that no one will notice. We can get in, get out, and get gone. With ten million in gold in the trunk. Might as well try it the easy way, huh?”

Trevor considers. “Why even leave drop the gold there? Why not take it all the way to the border?”

“Beats me,” Michael shrugs. “Fucking politics. Protocols. Shit if I know, I just know it’s a chance, and we’re gonna take it.”

Trevor holds his gaze, still frowning. “When?”

“Day after Christmas.”

“Well,” Trevor can’t help smiling, he tilts his beer towards Michael’s, “happy fucking holidays.”

Michael smiles back, clinking his beer into Trevor’s. “Amen.”

They both take a long drag from their bottles. Stray thoughts and considerations flicker through Trevor’s mind. Finally he pulls the beer free.

“Just to recap, your grand plan here is to be so damn fascinating to these simple yokels, that you’ll charm this secret location right out of them?”

Michael shrugs. “Hey, secrets sit heavier than people think. I bet someone’s aching to let this one loose.”

“So what? You’re going to make best friends with the entire damn town? Cause you’re so damn likable.”

“I bet I can narrow the field down some. And I am fucking likable.”

“Oh yeah?” Trevor asks, cracking a sly smile. “You and all your friends?”

Michael glares, taking another sip. “I got plenty of friends.”

“Oh cupcake, of course you do,” Trevor returns playfully.

“Hey– I was captain of the football team, alright? I am good with people.”

“Yeah. You’re good with people. Not the same thing exactly, though, is it? You know what you are?”

“Go on, fucking enlighten me.” 

“ _You_ are a charming amiable fucker, and that shit only goes skin deep. People like you for a week, maybe a month, but it doesn’t stick. Does it?”

“Yeah well, maybe I don’t want it to stick.”

“Maybe you can’t make it.”

“You’re still hanging around,” Michael notes.

“Yeah. Lucky me,” Trevor says snidely.

“Guess I should just go around smashing people’s heads in with bottles and biting off fingers like you, huh? Very fucking amiable.”

“Hey – that fingers thing was _one_ time.”

Michael gives him a look.

“Okay, fine,” Trevor concedes, “a couple of times, but if you get into a bar fight, you damn well better be ready to finish it.”

“Yeah? That’s how you’re gonna finish this? Snarling and foaming at the mouth at the whole damn town?”

“I’m not gonna have shit to do with this town,” Trevor says plainly.

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, thanks for the fucking help, great team work here. I’ll just talk my own ass off and look for a way to cash in here, huh?”

“Didn’t say I wouldn’t help.”

“Oh yeah, how’re you gonna help? Hang around here all day hiding from the terrifying townsfolk and pissing on the furniture?”  

“ _Actually_ , I’m going to do the only practical thing here.”

“And what’s that, Trev?”

“I’m going to go _look_ for this damn tunnel or whatever the hell it is.”

“Look for it?” Michael scoffs. “What? In the whole damn town?”

“What’d we have? Two months? Probably get results faster than you endearing yourself to the hearts and souls of the damn community.”

Michael’s quiet for a moment. Trevor can see the wheels spinning behind his stony expression, probably doing the math on how much easier his life will be if he doesn’t have to worry about training him to make small-talk.

“Fine,” Michael says finally.

“Fine,” Trevor agrees.

“You try it your way. I’ll try it mine. No fucking harm in that, huh?”

“No fucking harm,” Trevor confirms, tipping his beer towards him.

“Only,” Michael starts again hesitantly.

“What?” Trevor asks.

“Can you just… tone it down? Just a fucking bit?”

Trevor can’t keep the mocking tone out of his voice. “Tone what down?”

Michael levels a look at him. “All of it.”

“Look, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Trevor says. “Hell, I fit in better here than you do.”

“Yeah, that will be the fucking day.”

“I do!” he insists, “I look like your good ol’ standard country weirdo. Every town up this way’s got a few of them.”

“Alright, then can you just not blatantly fucking ruin this? How about that?”

“That’s a really touching amount of faith you’ve got there, Mikey, really moving.”

“Hey,” Michael says, voice suddenly quieter but firm. Sincere. “Look at me.”

Trevor looks at him. He can’t help it. There’s a way Michael can turn his voice, suddenly making it something firm and almost fucking honest, something you can’t ignore. It’s gotten them out of more tight spots than he’s willing to admit.

Michael holds his look. “Just promise me, alright? Promise you’ll do your best not to fuck this up. Then it really would make all of this just a giant waste of time.”

Trevor stares back at him, before finally peeling his lips back into a grin. “Hey, whatever makes you happy, Porkchop.”

The rest of the evening passes as dully as he’s sure any other does in this damn place. Michael continues to seem obnoxiously contented, like it’s all just a perfect little vacation for him, stretching out on the couch, draining beers with football, droning on the TV. 

When Trevor decides the football’s become truly insufferable, they flip a coin for the master bedroom. Trevor looses. He always seems to. 

He doesn’t sleep well in the guest room, not that he’d sleep well anywhere in this place. It’s too quiet. And everything little thing is louder because of it. That, combined with the fact that he’s sleeping in an actual house. He can’t remember the last time he slept in a real house; hell, maybe never. When he was a kid, it was always trailers or cramped apartments or makeshift duplexes behind the laundromat. Even now, since this new career move, he’s never stayed anywhere for too long. They’re always just following the jobs wherever they lead, which unusual meant mildewy motel rooms but not a house, never a proper, actual, _real_ , House.

There are noises that come along with all the empty space; strange, hollow sort of noises that sound like the place is shifting around as restless as himself in the night. It creaks and groans bizarrely, clicks and clanks sounding as what must be heating switching on and off, and all of it is so sharp and clear against the pure damn _quiet_. It wasn’t natural. Places shouldn’t be _this_ quiet. He didn’t even hear a car go past once in the night. It wasn’t right. There’s a sort of weird peace in the noise that usually filled the quiet. It feels kinda good to hear the whole terrible damn world rage on outside while you nestle down amongst it. Something about this stillness caught between half lost dreams makes it feel like everything – the house, the silence, the darkness – is all watching him. 

When he finally pulls awake from the stunted half-sleep, it’s just barely light out outside. Trevor stumbles out of bed naked, leaning his tattooed hands heavily on the window and glaring out at the world. Through the windows everything looks grey and tired, huddled down against the chill of fall. A light frost dully shines on the grass. Windows stare black and listless from the few houses within eyeshot.

He runs a hand through his thin scrappy hair, then down his face, past the unkempt mustache and stubble. Michael’s probably still asleep. He always sleeps later than Trevor does, and usually goes to bed earlier too. But Trevor always suspected he didn’t exactly _need_ sleep like other people seemed to. Hell, most other animals only caught a few hours at a time. He’d heard on some nature show once when idly flicking through channels that sharks only slept half their brain at a time, to stay alert and focused, ready for anything, and that sounded about right.

As far as he could tell, the world at large was still asleep outside. He should probably try to go back to bed too, but hell, he’s awake now. And he’d said he would try things his way. No time like the present. Maybe if he gets after it, and finds the damn secret tunnel or whatever it is soon enough, they can fuck off out of this joke of a place and get back to the motels and the smell of gun-oil worked into car sears. Back to their lives, back to what they do best. He hangs onto that thought. Hell, at least it’s hope.

By the time he slams the front door behind him, he realizes the world’s a damn sight more awake than he was ready to give it credit for. A middle-aged couple in matching spandex jogs past the driveway. He watches them from the porch with narrow eyes, sinking his hands deeper into the pockets of his patched parka, breathing steam into the cold air. They don’t seem to notice him in the grey shadows of the dawn. All the better. 

It’s cold, but not too cold; just chilly enough to get your cheeks raw as you walk. The air smells like frost and dead leaves and absolutely nothing else. Seems wrong with no stink of proper _life_ in the air. No trash, or piss, or gasoline, or anything even close to character. It just adds to that unreality of the whole place, like some damn fantasy, something imagined and pasted down into the world. 

With a grumble, Trevor heads off the porch and down to the road. He glances down either end of the road. Just over the treetops to the north there is a church steeple, the one from the town center, he remembers. Seems an easy enough place to get started.

It doesn’t take him long to cut straight through two backyards, weave past a thin layer of trees, and hop a fence into the graveyard that surrounds the back of the large old church.       

He lands solidly on the other side of the fence and takes a deep breath. The cold air fills his nostrils with a sharp feeling and he leans back against the fence for a moment, taking the place in. It’s easy enough to see the town center from here, just across the flat ground of the graveyard, beyond the cold hard iron fence that encircles it. There’s a low mist hanging around everything, emphasizing the cold and grey October feeling of the morning. It was still too damn picturesque with the low fog seeping between the worn New England tombstones. But hell, at least it was better than the brilliant chipper colors of the full daylight autumn they’d driven through yesterday. 

The town green looks empty this early, just one or two cars parked around the perimeter. There are some pin-pricks of light pulsing through the haziness of the green. Looks like Christmas tree lights, strung around the edges of the gazebo, and isn’t that just fucking perfect. The shops past the green are all darkened, except for one on the street corner, glowing brightly. The church is dark too, but churches always are, aren’t they? The thing’s a bit of a beast, he realizes, giving it a closer evaluation. It’s grand and stolid, all stone and old brick with deep set stained glass windows and a towering age-stained copper steeple. It gives off the distinct impression of some ever-patience, unforgiving judgment, glaring down undaunted and immovable. Well, got to invoke that fear of god, right?

Trevor smirks at the old walls and spits into the crunching frosted grass before moving on through the tombstones.

It seems as good a place as any to give a good look. Peering back across the road he can see the old marble bank sitting just diagonal. They used to put all sorts of shit in graveyards, didn’t they? Buried tombs and crypts and all that. Especially in old places like this. Seems like a damn natural spot to add in an extra little tunnel. 

But where to start looking? And how?

The headstones are old, lichen splotched and mottled with age. On some of them you can hardly read the lettering any longer, especially not in this gloom. He lets his gaze travel around the edges, maybe a mausoleum or something like that – just jimmy the door open, kick some old bones out of the way and knock around for a hollow spot, maybe?

There’s a sudden movement behind the stones. His attention swivels sharply in that direction.

He realizes it didn’t come from inside the graveyard at all, but rather a small house close behind the other side of the fence. It’s the only house at all that is close to the churchyard. It’s old like everything else in the damn town, and small, and worn out, but it’s different from the other houses. It looks a bit like the house the rest kicked out of the nest and watched in a kind of muted horror when it didn’t just die on its own. The roof’s sagging, the windows twisted and worn, and the garden that butts right against the graveyard fence is a tangle of brambles and sparse shrubs, all scrambling over the sides of the iron fence hungrily. 

There are no lights on in the place. But Trevor keeps his eyes fixed. He saw something move. He’s sure of it. 

And he’s right. There’s someone standing outside. Someone standing in that garden, if you could call it a garden. They haven’t moved again, in fact they’re standing very still. Strange though. It’s not a firm, intentional sort of stillness, not like something when it’s trying not to move. It’s a natural stillness, like it is just part of the cold frosted tangle of the garden. Trevor peers through the gloom, trying to get a fix on whomever it is. A small body. Pale grey hair. A wrinkled face. A wrinkled face, staring right back at his.

“My good _lord_!”

Trevor jumps. He can’t fucking help it. The voice came out of nowhere from behind him. He snarls as he turns, mind going hot and laser focused like it always does when something surprises him.

A wiry older man stumbles back a few steps. “Gracious, I’m _so_ sorry.”

Trevor stares back at him. The hand he’d half raised starts to uncurl it’s fingers behind his back.

“Truly,” the older man continues, “I didn’t mean to startle you, my gosh, but you did give me quite a wonderful fright!”

Trevor looks down at the man who’s suddenly beaming back at him with a sincere and fascinating smile. “A… wonderful fright?” Trevor repeats carefully. 

“God, yes!” the man continues. He takes a step closer. Trevor looks back at him. The man in front of him is turned out and buttoned up, shined out and pulled together, more so than any human he’s ever seen in real life. Hell, even in TV or movies. He looks some animated British tea mascot wished real hard and fell out into the real world. His grey-white hair is combed back perfectly. Small bright eyes peer at him from behind circular glasses with thick cranberry frames. He isn’t wearing a hat, but his tweed jacket is buttoned up high with a yellow silk scarf tucked in all around the neck so his head just pops out to meet the world. His pants are light, and so well creased they looked almost solid where they met very pale brown leather shoes, the kind that everyone wears in old movies, with neat orange laces. And a walking stick. He’s using an actual silver-tipped walking stick. Christ.

“Gracious, I have been unforgivably rude, haven’t I?” The man reaches out a hand in a glove of the same leather as the shoes. “My name is John, John Fontaine.”

Trevor looks at the hand in silence for a minute. He looks at the walking stick. Many possibilities of better uses for that walking stick flash through his mind. But Michael’s tired, thoroughly unimpressed expression hurries in quickly behind them. _Just promise me, alright?_

With a grumble, Trevor takes the hand, probably a little harder than he needs to. “Trevor.”

“Ah, wonderful!”

“…Is it?”

“Goodness, well, gosh, I certainly assume so,” he twitters. “Look, young man, I feel ought to explain myself.”

“Do you?” Trevor says, still trying to take in the whole noisy existence in front of him.

“Certainly, well you see, I don’t actually make a habit of wandering amongst _graves_ at dawn, emitting cries of surprise as I stumble upon young men hidden in the mists.”

“I don’t know,” Trevor says. “Sounds like a decent way to spend a morning.”

“You’re too wicked I’m sure,” the man grins, and Trevor suddenly finds a spark of liking for the old weirdo. There was something kinda stupidly but undeniably amusing him. Like a turtle in a funny little hat.

“The point is,” the man continues, “I was so surprised seeing you here because you are - and you’ll forgive me, I’m sure - just _exactly_ what I have been looking for!”

Trevor blinks. He’s never been exactly what anyone was looking for. In fact, most of the time he’s the exact opposite of what everyone is looking for. 

“What’s that?” he asks. 

“Your face! Your bearing! Why, it’s just so shockingly correct, I was utterly transported for a moment. Utterly _transported_!”

Trevor’s starting to wonder if the guy’s been wandering around in the cold for a bit too long. “I’m ‘correct’?” he repeats.

“Oh yes, absolutely correct. Your countenance is _haunting_ and oh-so-commanding in just the right way. With just a touch of pallor, why, you’d be utterly perfectly cadaverous!”

Ah, so that’s what this is about. Well, he’d heard plenty of stories. Not that surprising. Didn’t exactly imagine well, _this_ sort as the poster-look for corpse-fuckers, but hey, it takes all kinds.

“Would you be willing, to, well…” The little man takes a step closer, lowering his voice suddenly, with eager anticipation. “Would you be willing to offer yourself for such a service?”

Well, this certainly turned into a heck of a more interesting morning that he’d hoped for. Solicited for necrophilia by a guy who looks like Willy Wonka’s gay uncle. Fancy that. Maybe the place wasn’t so boring after all.

“Sorry there buddy,” Trevor smiles sympathetically. “I’ve got my own parties to throw.”

“Oh, but it would just be for the evening! And the children so look forward to it.”

Alright. Maybe that’s a little too far. “Children?”

“Yes! My god, they line up around the square for their turn.”

Trevor hesitates. “Their turn for what, exactly?”

“Why, for the annual Littleton _Ghost Walk_ ,” the man finishes with a dramatic undulating tone on the last words. 

“Ghost Walk?” 

“Oh yes, you know,” the man continues, “the one we have every year.”

“Actually, I’m new here. All news to me,” Trevor says.

“Oh my, goodness, yes, I suppose you are ‘new’. I certainly would have remembered seeing such a striking visage before now, but you’ll forgive me I’m sure. It’s such a treat - the highlight of all-hallows-eve! I was just out here ‘mapping the grounds’, so to speak.”

“So what? You all dress up like ghosts? Isn’t that pretty standard issue?”

“Oh no my good man, not all of us, just a select few. It has to be historically grounded of course; although I will admit, we often times skirt precise accuracy. I run the local historical society you see, quite a fortuitous retirement occupation.”

“And what does this have to do with me?”

“Why, you are the perfect fit to fill our most prestigious of roles! Do you know that I have never found the right fit for it? And I simply can’t bear inadequate casting, so, as a consequence, the ghost walk has been lacking one of our most compelling historical specters for years.”

“Who? The town drunk who tripped and knocked himself out on a horse’s ass?”

The man gives him that self-indulgent smile again, “Oh no, no, no.” He suddenly unfolds his fingers dramatically as he says, “The Wandering Soldier.”

“Mmm,” Trevor notes, “very patriotic.”

“Oh, but it’s so much more! A character of such pitiable loss and misery!”

“Certainly sounds like fun.”

“And I’m sure that it would be! But the story is actually quite sad, I’m afraid, as most ghost stories are, you know. The legend claims that a Union soldier survived Gettysburg with a dreadful wound, and was being carried back north by his brothers in arms, only when he returned his town, dear Littleton, had been struck by a terrible bout of smallpox, and his friends and family were already dead before him.”

“Huh. nice story.”

“So it’s said,” the man continues undaunted, small bright eyes burning with intensity, “that he was left so shattered he could do nothing but wander the graveyard, where they all were laid to rest. And when his wound’s infection flared again, he simply wasted away before the year was out. And so the legend goes that you can still hear him, to this day! Pacing these graves in the dead of night, back with his family, and finally home again.” The man’s voice rose and fell as he told the story, with a dramatic undulating tone, as if he was trying to frighten a child. Which was strange, given that the way he was smiling through the whole gloomy account was a good deal creepier than the actual story.

“And you,” Trevor starts again, “what was it you said, think I’m ‘perfect’ for some poor bastard too boring to do anything else but wander around a graveyard, dying of some leaky infection?”

“ _And_ a broken heart,” the man adds with the same eager expression.

Trevor looks down at him. “Halloween you said you do this thing?”

“That’s right. A week from Thursday.”

“So you think I have time to put on some moldy old costume and creep around here all night, scaring a bunch of kids shitless?”

“Well,” the man presses with a wheedling grin, “I must say I certainly do hope so.”

Michael’s rough voice plays in his head all too easily. _You’re making a great impression already. Really blending right in._ Trevor starts to smile.

“Then Johnny,” he answers finally, “today’s your lucky day.”

“Oh!” the man actually clasps his hands together in front of his chest, looking at him like he’s made all his sick little dreams come true. “This is _fantastic_ , I am just so pleased, really! Do allow me to show my gratitude. Let me treat you to a hearty mulled cider! They’ve been brewing it up at Daffodil’s every morning since the first.”

As tempting the idea of spending the morning with a sixty-something dandy is, sipping mulled cider somewhere called “Daffodils”, Trevor shakes his head. “Thanks, but no thanks. I should be heading back.”

“Oh, of course, I’ve already been shamefully opportunistic, laying claim to your morning sojourn. But here, do take this.” He fiddles in his pocket with his pale brown gloves and pulls free a small silver case that looks too thin for smokes. He pops it open neatly and removes one thick card, handing it to Trevor.

Trevor takes it, frowning at the thing skeptically. The paper feels more expensive than a case of fruity German beer, and the lettering on it has more swoops than a lawyer’s signature.

It reads: “John Fontaine, Keeper of the Littleton Historical Society, Expert in Theriogenology, Amateur Apiarist” 

“You just give me a call if you have any more questions.” He hesitates for a moment. “You did say you are new to the area? But you live close by?”

Trevor manages a pursed smile. “That’s right. Just down the road.”

“Oh good! Then I’m sure I’ll be seeing you about the town.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well then, goodbye! And again thank you, _thank you_.”

John Fontaine, Keeper of the Littleton Historical Society, Expert in Theriogenology, Amateur Apiarist, twirls his cane merrily and heads back the way he came, disappearing back into the morning mist. It’s brighter out now, gold sneaking in around the grey. He peers up at the sky. It’s clearing, the sun must be rising somewhere behind him. Michael’s probably pulling his ass out of bed round about now. 

Trevor turns back to the fence to climb out the way he came. He stops just before swinging a leg over and looks back towards the house by the churchyard.

It looks just like it did. Just a bit crooked, rather abandoned, and utterly still. He looks carefully, but the garden is empty, and no one is looking back at him. At least, not as far as he can tell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright dudes! I'm going to be aiming for weekly SUNDAY updates with this one now that I'm in the swing of stuff. Also, track the tag "The Littleton Job" on tumblr for notes / other update notices. Thanks!

Funny. It feels better than he thought it would – waking up without a pistol under his pillow. It’s still just waiting in the top drawer of the bedside table, but still, it’s an improvement. Michael rolls over in the flannel sheets with a self-indulgent groan. He blinks up at the ceiling. Morning is starting to filter through the half-drawn curtains on the eastern side of the room. The leaves from the maple tree just outside dice the light into fuzzy golden shapes along the walls. 

Michael lets himself smile. This was a good idea. He deserves a little break. The past six months have been nothing but turf wars as he tried to spin up just a modest prostitution business on the side, all while keeping the drugs steady. It only makes sense; the girls, and he’s never been one to miss opportunities. But then Mickey Flynn had to catch wind of it and make his life just that much more interesting. It doesn’t matter. He’ll push past him in the end. He’s always been planning to, just on his own terms, when it made sense, as soon as the Irish were convinced they weren’t a real threat. And Trevor had really helped that plan right along, hadn’t he?

Michael sighs rolling over enough to peer out the window. Ah, well. Didn’t turn out too bad in the end, did it. He gets a break, Mickey Flynn lets his guard down, and he won’t lie, it feels good to be back with the classics: ripping off banks. It was what they were good at, what they were built on. Nice, comfortable grand larceny. The perfect vacation.

All he had to do now was keep Trevor from ending this one just as prematurely. But even that doesn’t feel too likely. Risky for sure; hell, anything with Trevor was risky, but the truth was at the end of the day, if Michael asked him for something and honestly meant it, he’d always come through. He was funny like that, dead loyal even if unpredictable, but hey it had gotten them this far. 

Michael pulls himself out of bed eventually, leaving the gun outside the bathroom as he takes a shower, something else he hasn’t been able to do for the past year. He’s still running a hand through short damp hair to kick out the last bits of water as he heads down the stairs.

There are sounds in the kitchen, loud and careless enough for him to know it’s Trevor. He heads that way, taking in the house as he does. Lester really did a number on this place. It looks perfect, just like something out of one of the magazines his mom used to hide under her mattress. He wonders idly what she’d think if she’d known he’d be the one to end up in a place like this one day. She’d probably hate him even more than she already did. The thought makes him smile as he turns the last corner into the kitchen.

“Mornin’, hun,” Trevor beams nastily. “Wanna coffee?”

Michael takes the whole insane picture in. “You… found an apron.”

“Can’t be getting all messy, eh?” Trevor glances down at the thing, suddenly skeptical. “That is what they’re for right?”

“Yeah, T. That’s what they’re for.”

“Well that’s fucking stupid. So what? You get this thing messy instead of your clothes? So something gets shit on it either way. Who gives a damn?”

“Typically you only use aprons if you’re doing something messier than a cup of coffee.”

“Hey,” Trevor snaps, pointing a finger at him, and only Trevor can look actually murderous wearing an apron covered in little white cats and daisies. “You gonna give me shit, or drink the damn coffee?”

Michael smiles, sliding onto one of the stools by the countertop. “I’ll take the damn coffee.”

“Damn right.” Trevor shoves a mug towards him.

Michael wraps his hand around the smooth warmth of it. It’s one of those fancy-ass mugs, real clay glazed with flowing sea-stormy colors. Good coffee too, nice and dark and deep.

Trevor leans back against the opposite counter, sipping his own with one hand braced behind him. He’s glaring around the kitchen with narrowed wary eyes. Michael snorts into his coffee. Trevor’s eyes swivel towards him. 

“What?”

“You.”

“What the fuck about me?”

“What’d you think’s gonna happen? You think the lavender hand soap’s gonna bite your hand off? Martha fucking Stewart’s gonna pop out of a cupboard, assault you down with goddamn Christmas decorations?”

“Never fucking know,” Trevor grumbles.

“Look, chill the fuck out, alright?” Michael says. “Hell, I’ve seen you more comfortable literally sleeping in a goddamn dumpster behind a liquor-store then in this place? How does that work?”

“Sleeping in a dumpster behind a liquor store is solid fucking ground, alright? It’s reliably shit, good solid consistent shit. I don’t know what the hell _this_ is.” He gestures widely around the kitchen. “It’s the goddamn jungle as far as I’m concerned, alright? And we should be just as fucking careful.”

“Careful of what? The bake sales?”

“I’m serious,” Trevor says.

“Trev,” Michael levels, “nothing is gonna happen. Have you seen this place? It looks like nothing has _ever_ happened.”

“Bullshit,” Trevor says, “shit happens everywhere. I don’t care how tight you wrap it up or how many damn bows you put on it, every place has a dark side, this one’s just harder to see, and _that’s_ what makes me fucking uneasy. I like my dark-sides right out in the fucking open, pissing directly in your face, thanks very much.”

“Yeah,” Michael rolls his eyes, “real serious dark-side here. I bet the little old lady who owns the knitting shop is mutilating children in her basement, turning their hair into yarn or some shit, huh?”

“Hey, don’t count it out,” Trevor says with a crooked smile. “Anyways, I’d say I’m more of a local expert than you by now.”

Michael puts down his mug. “Is that right?”

“Mmm,” Trevor hums into his. “In fact, I’m already making friends.”

Michael’s expression drops. “You fucking promised, I swear to god—“

“Hey! Hey! Way to jump the fucking gun there, Christ. I’m _serious_.”

“ _I_ am fucking serious! If you screwed this up in less than twenty-four hours—“

“Right. That’s exactly right. I fucked it up. I went right into that fucking gazebo this morning and had a good loud wank for the whole damn town. Hit a little old lady right in the eye as she was strolling past—”

“I wouldn’t be fucking shocked.”

“ _I_ made a friend,” Trevor says suddenly, with what actually seems like genuine fucking pride. “Faster than your lazy ass, by the way, with all your – what did you call it? ‘People Skills’?”

“A friend?” Michael repeats. “What? A dog pee on your leg or something?”

Trevor smirks back at him. He reaches into his worn jeans and takes out what looks like a business card. He slides it dramatically across the counter. Michael picks it up, managing to read through the obscene swirls of the lettering.

“The hell is Theriogenology?”

“Is that how you say that? Fuck if I know. I don’t know what any of that crap means.”

“Apiarist sounds familiar…”

“Right. Apes. Right?”

“Uh, no. I think bees maybe.”

“Christ, the shit people do when they get bored enough.”

“Who is this?” Michael asks, looking back to him.

“My new friend,” Trevor smiles smugly.

“Where’d you get it?”

“I mugged him. Christ, where the fuck do you think?”

Michael just stares back at him.

Trevor sighs dramatically. “On a walk, alright, just taking a stroll in my new neighborhood. All up to brand, right?”

“And he just gave you this card? You gonna buy some bees or something?”

“Actually,” Trevor beams, “ _I_ am going to participate in a Community Event.”

Michael blinks. “A ‘Community Event’.”

“That’s right. According to mister bee-fucker here I am ‘just perfect’.”

“Well,” Michael starts, “that’s a fucking first, isn’t it?”

“You know, I take it back, you were right, you are fucking charming.”

“Alright, alright come on, tell me what the hell happened.”

“Nothing, just what I said. Ran into the guy, he starts proclaiming my undeniable perfection to the world at large, asks if I want to help out with some historical shit they do on Halloween, and _being the contributing member of fucking society_ that I am: I agree.”

“What sort of historical shit?”

“I don’t know, some ghost walk thing they do on Halloween. Like I said, the shit people do when they’re bored, man.”

“So what? You’re gonna be some ghost?” Michael can’t help smiling.

“That’s right. Why? Is that so damn hard to believe?”

“Oh no,” Michael shrugs loosely, “I think you’ll make a damn terrifying ghost, just interesting to see you taking a sudden interest in - what did you call it? - crap constructed out of pure bullshit?”

“Hey,” Trevor grins back, “I can put up with one night of bullshit to prove you wrong.”

“Yeah. Guess so, huh?” Michael picks up his mug again, taking on last sip. “Christ, I’m starved.”

“Well _sorry_ I only managed the fucking coffee,” Trevor starts.

“Chill the fuck out, I mean I wanna eat. Wanna find someplace? Check this place out. The local expert you are, you can show me around, huh?”

Trevor holds his eyes with a small smile before shrugging. “Sure, why the fuck not.”

It’s still chilly as they head down the road, but not too bad. Not bad at all, really, especially as the sun rises higher in the clear sky. Pretty much as perfect of a mid-October day as you could ask for. The air is crisp and full of the smell of cold dirt and rotting leaves, mingling with what has to be smoke from some early season woodstove fires.

Florescent leaves are scattered across the road, still stiff from frost. Trevor grinds them under his boots with a grimace, hands deep in the pockets of that shitty old coat. Michael always wondered why he didn’t just suck it up and get a new one. There was even duct-tape on one sleeve, and yeah it still have some of his old Canadian air-force patches, but hell, he could always cut those off and sew then back on a new one if he cared _that_ much.

“Alright, so where’re we going then?” Trevor asks.

“You tell me,” Michael says. “You’re the one who supposedly knows your way around.”

“The town center’s just around the corner up there, we’re the street behind it. We could start there.”

“Look at that, you really are the expert.”

“Alright, give it a fucking rest.” Trevor glance suddenly twists to the far side of the road. He slows. “Shit.”

“What?” Michael slows instinctively alongside, following his look.

“That creepy house. Didn’t realize it was so close the way I came back.”

Michael looks at the house. It’s set deeper back from the road than theirs. The paint is peeling, roof sagging. Half the fenceposts that maybe one day were neat and tidy are broken or missing like jagged teeth in some sorry mouth. “Kinda out of place, huh.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Why’s it bugging you? Seems like your kinda spot. Looks abandoned anyways.”

“Yeah, well, it isn’t. I saw someone watching me from the backyard this morning.”

“You sure?” Michael asks skeptically, turning back to the road and heading down it. “Looks pretty empty to me.”

“I said I saw it.”

Michael grins. “Spooked?”

“Shut up.”

“Hey, maybe it’s just another local community Ghost Walker.”

“I said shut up, look, whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, whatever you say.” 

They keep heading around the curve of their street until it meets with another; together, both roads head into the loop around the town green. It doesn’t take too long to walk all the way into the town center, maybe fifteen minutes, even less. He hadn’t realized how close they were to the thriving center of local commerce. It was all just so still around here, he never would have guessed. Even now, there’s just a few cars parked around the perimeter of the green, a smattering of people wandering in and out of the handful of shops circling the center, but it all feels so… 

“Quiet,” Trevor sniffs.

“Yeah,” Michael agrees.

“ _Creepy_ ,” Trevor clarifies.

Michael rolls his eyes. “Come on, let’s do a circle, find some grub.”

“Hold on, I wanna see this,” Trevor says suddenly, heading in the exact opposite direction. 

“Hey—“ Michael tries, but it’s too late, Trevor’s already hopped across the street, he has no choice but to follow him. 

“Check this out, huh!” Trevor says, stepping up to an old building that takes up most of the eastern side of the square. “What’d yah think?

Michael takes the thing in. It’s definitely old, maybe one of the older buildings around, all worn wood that feels like the past is rubbed right into it, with an open porch that circles around the back. It’s not a home, that much is obvious. “I think it’s a mill or something. Preserved.”

“Oh, yeah?” Trevor steps up onto the porch, heading around the back.

“Hey!“ Michael calls in a hushed voice, “I don’t know if—“

Trevor flicks a hand towards a very polite little wooden sign affixed to the side of the building: “Open for Public Benefit - Please Respect this Community Space”. 

Michael follows Trevor around the back of the building. There’s a thin set of steps that leads down to a lower porch. The location of the place and the time of day fill this whole side with early morning sun.

Trevor lets out a whistle from the level below and Michael leans over the side of the railing to look. He was right. It is a mill – an old one. A small river runs all along the back of the building, and he can see the river’s bends trace a line right along the town to the north where the road follows along. He can even see a small bridge up that way where the cars must pass over, and an even smaller bridge closer that looks like it’s part of a footpath or something along those lines.

The mill’s waterwheel is intact, and gently spinning against the cold October current with a soft ambient creaking.

Trevor looks up, beaming back at him. “Pretty neat!”

Michael can’t help laughing. “Pretty neat? Yeah I guess, for a hunk of wood.”

“Wonder what’s inside…”

“Yeah well I don’t, come on, I’m fucking starved.”

“‘Course your fat-ass would be,” Trevor says, heading back up the thin stairs to Michael’s level. “Come on, let’s go that way.” He gestures towards what looks like a very small park that shares the eastern side of the square with the mill.

Michael sighs, “Look, can we just fucking eat, please?”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Shit if I know.”

“Fine, then it won’t hurt to look around a bit more, will it? Anyways, I’d say that little patch of grass as a pretty convenient location, wouldn’t you?”

Michael follows his look. The tiny park curls around the bend of the river, right across from the old marble facade of the bank.

“Alright,” Michael says, “yeah, suppose it won’t hurt.”

Trevor hops over the little railing around the mill, out onto the grass. Michael follows him with a little less ease. He’s bulkier than Trevor, something he never seems to stop reminding him of. 

Little winding gravel paths draw a few lines through a small green, with a few of those same big fat maple trees resting between them. Trevor stops suddenly up ahead, turns, and collapses back into an ancient looking park bench. The bench is turned in such a way that it faces the river as it winds north and the bank on the corner. Michael hesitates before sitting down next to him. “Decent spot.”

“Not bad,” Trevor agrees, running a critical eye over the building across from them. “There’s more to that than it seems.” He notes.

Michael leans forward, denim jacketed elbows resting on his knees. “Yeah… yeah there is, huh?”

There’s cameras on the front, not obvious, but hidden under some of the marble work. And they’re new, likely setup with a number of sensor triggers.

“The door’s no joke either,” Trevor observes. 

A couple suddenly appears heading towards them down the path. Michael leans back, and gives them a quick friendly smile as they pass. Trevor watches them walk by without a flinch in his expression.

The woman has short cropped brown hair and meets Michael’s eye with a nervous-looking half nod. As soon as she and the man are a few meters past them, she tugs on his arm, whispering something in his ear. The man’s neck is instantly craning back over his shoulder, peering at them as they continue to walk away.

“Yeah,” Trevor rolls his eyes, “we’re totally inconspicuous.”  

“I didn’t say fucking inconspicuous,” Michael argues, “just the right amount of spicuous. Trust me, it would be worse if we were here under any other circumstances.”

“Brothers?” Trevor suggests, “god forbid fucking _friends_.”

“Look,” Michael insists, “two guys in their early thirties don’t just ‘settle down’ in a little town like this. People would be wondering what the hell we were doing.”

“ _Brad_ , would agree with me,” Trevor says suddenly. “And god, fucking Brad. Brad could hold his own under pressure, which when jobs needed three men on the ground came in handy, but other than that…”

“Brad isn’t here,” Michael insists.

“Yeah well, if he was, he would agree with me.”

“That’s because he’s an idiot – listen: two random guys show up, no jobs here, no girlfriends, no motivation. People wonder. People talk. They’d probably never guess right, but they’d be guessing all the same and that’s trouble we don’t need. We’re filling in all the blanks for them, in just the way they love – just enough scandal and intrigue for no one to wonder. Basically settling down in a town like this _is not_ what two single guys would do, but it is exactly the type of shit two comfy queers would do.”

“Hey – watch it,” Trevor snaps.

“Watch what?”

“The language.” Trevor swivels suddenly, still leaning back in the bench with his arms spread, but twisting his neck to peer back at Michael. “Honestly, don’t you feel even a bit of a dick here?”

“In what way?” Michael asks reproachfully.

“Throwing around shit like that and _appropriating_ some false sexuality?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I mean _I_ at least am hardly lying here. I’m an equal opportunity employer. But _you_ , you’re just filled right to the brim with bullshit on this one.”

“We’re _always_ filled with bullshit,” Michael says, glancing around him quickly to make sure no one else on a morning walk is within earshot, “we’re _thieves_ , Trev, that’s kinda the deal.”

“We’re thieves, yeah,” Trevor says, “but I’m not a liar. That’s all you.”

“Well, aren’t you just fucking special,” Michael grumbles.

An older woman is heading up the path towards them now. She’s wearing a very pink coat, buttoned right up to her neck and an equally pink knitted hat.

“Morning!” Trevor exclaims. The woman gives him one look and hurries on down the path without saying a word.

“The warm bosom of America, huh?” Trevor says. “Alright, let’s feed that fat-ass. That looks like a place, doesn’t it?” He nods his head down the street. The green still looks as peaceful as anything. The church and graveyard dominate the southern side of the square, which is longer than it is tall. The northern side facing the church is all little shops that curl around the western side, too.

“Where?” Michael asks, trying to look down the line of shops.

“The corner, that little bullshit sign there.”

Michael looks. On the northwest corner of the square, a little sign hangs out above the sidewalk. There’s a picture of a frying pan, a cup of coffee, and simple letters that read “CJ’s”.

“Yeah, looks like,” Michael agrees. “Fuck it, let’s go.”

“After you, sugar,” Trevor smiles. 

 

The place is smaller inside than he was expecting. No booths, just less than a dozen simple tables and a bar that fills one side of the place. Michael squeezes in past the packed coatrack by the door as the little bell continues to jangle over his head. It’s close and much warmer inside; the smell of bacon, fresh coffee, and warm dough packing into the space.

Trevor jams his way in after him, shutting the door against the cold firmly. The noise of the place still feels full and jolly, but Michael has a feeling that there’s a little less conversation bouncing between tables than before they came in. He glances around, trying to keep his expression pleasant and comfortable, but there’s more than one cold set of eyes glaring back at his and more than a couple of very decided looks pivoting quickly back to their steaming coffee cups.

“Just chock full of that small town charm,” Trevor mutters quietly at his back.

There doesn’t seem to be a hostess. Big surprise. Michael spies two open seats at the counter. He nudges Trevor and moves for them. They slide into the two seats. The larger man in a rough coat next to Trevor is staring at them. Trevor stares back steadily. The man clears his throat, narrows his eyes, and with one motion that feels like nothing but tense irritation, slides off his seat and heads for the door.

“Great,” Michael sighs. “That’s just great.”

“Eating or not?” a hard voice suddenly calls. 

Michael looks up. A middle-aged woman is standing behind the counter across from them. She has both hands on her hips and an expression that looks like it could shovel gravel.

“Uh, yeah, please,” Michael answers.

She slaps two menus down on the counter. “Coffee?”

“Sure,” Michael answers.

“You, too?” she asks Trevor.

Trevor smiles thinly. “Why the hell not?”

“Ain’t got an answer for that,” the woman answers shortly. She fills their mugs and turns back towards the kitchen.

“Don’t mind her,” a man suddenly says from their other side. “CJ’s like that with everyone.”

“You done with those pancakes yet, Brian?” the woman’s harsh voice calls from the kitchen.

“Not yet,” the man answers.

“Gonna just keep taking up my counter space then?”

“Seems so,” he answers. He turns back to them. “See.”

“Yeah, sure,” Michael answers easily. The man smiles back at them in a pleasant unconcerned sort of way. He’s shorter, with square glasses and a few grey streaks in his dark hair. He has the sort of expression that always looks a little concerned or speculative, like there’s little crosswords written on everything that always need sorting out. 

Well, no better time than the present, huh? Michael sticks out a hand. “It’s Michael.”

“Brian,” the man says, taking it, “Brian Oaks.”

He glances at Trevor. Trevor doesn’t extend a hand, picking up his coffee instead, but he mutters “Trevor” into it.

“Good to meet you,” Brian says.

“Yeah, yeah, same,” Michael answers.

“Alright, know what you want?” the gruff voice sounds again. Michael turns to see CJ waiting with both hands pressed on the counter impatiently.

“Uh,” Michael fumbles. “Pancakes I guess.”

“You?” she asks Trevor abruptly.

Trevor narrows his eyes at her, then looks to Michael, then back to her. “I’m not actually starved. Coffee’s fine.”

“Fine. Good,” CJ answers, turning to the kitchen again, yelling back Michael’s order.

Michael glances at him. “You’re not hungry?”

“Nah,” Trevor shifts on his seat. He keeps glancing around at the other people in the place uneasily. “Actually, I think I’ll finish that walk.”

“What walk?”

“The one I started this morning. Check the place out _properly_ ,” he emphasizes.

Michael frowns. “You sure?”

Trevor holds his look firmly. “Yeah. See you later, huh?”

“Uh, yeah sure,” Michael starts but Trevor’s already slung himself off the stool and swung right back out the way they came. Michael peers after him for a moment, watching as he strides across the street, back towards the graveyard.

“Sorry,” Brian says suddenly.

Michael turns. “What?”

“Oh just, I’m sure it’s been… you probably just wanted to have your own breakfast. That’s my bad.”

“What? Oh! Shit no, no worries,” Michael says quickly. “Look he’s just… he’s got his own weird little tendencies alright, that’s no one’s fault.”

“Well, I’m sorry all the same,” he says.

“Seriously, no need,” Michael says, buttoning it with his most disarming smile. It lands home. The man smiles back.

“If I’m being honest actually, there was a reason I butted in,” he admits.

“Oh yeah?” Michael asks.

“Well, you might have noticed, Littleton isn’t exactly the most exciting place in the world,” Brian continues, taking another bite of his pancakes. “So anyone new is pretty big news around here.”

“That so?”

“Mmm,” he agrees around his breakfast. “And when you two finally showed up everyone was obviously pretty eager to learn, well, everything.”

Michael smiles. “Everyone, including you.”

“I’d like to think I’m not _quite_ that nosey,” Brian says. “But I was in Tim Thread’s shop this morning, getting my ski-bindings refitted before the season starts, and he happened to mention meeting you both, and he said you were a writer…”

Shit. “Did he?”

“Was he right?” Brian asks.

Michael shrugs. “Yeah, not that it’s much of anything.”

“Well, as it happens,” Brian says, meeting his eye. “I’m a writer, too.”

And his lucky just keeps getting better doesn’t it?

“Oh yeah?” Michael asks, keeping his voice calmed with just a mild interest sprinkled on top.

“Yeah, so you see, I was curious. Don’t actually have a lot of other writers around town.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t imagine. Not exactly the most popular career anyways, huh?”

“Least not the most easy career to get into,” Brian agrees. “Bit funny, too, you know?”

“How’s that?” Michael presses.

“Oh just, you two, coming into a town like this, sort of feels like its own little story, wouldn’t you say?”

Michael shrugs. “’Suppose. Not exactly my kind of story, though.”

“What is your kind of story?” Brian asks, with genuine fucking interest. 

Michael focuses. The best lies are always the easiest to tell.   
“Crime dramas,” Michael answers smoothly, “heists, robberies, mysteries. That sort of stuff.”

“Mmm, popular genre,” Brian notes. “Anything I’d know?”

“Doubt it,” Michael says without pause, “nothing all that popular, but it’s enough to get by on.”

“Well congrats, can be a challenging way to make a living. I should know, I sold right out.”

“Oh yeah?” Michael asks. “How’s that?”

“I used to dream of writing the next great American novel, all too cliched I’m afraid, but I realized pretty fast I don’t actually enjoy living off of microwave noodles in shitty apartments with heating systems older than I am.”

“Hey, I can feel that,” Michael notes.

“So, I sold my soul to the beast of the movie business and haven’t looked back.”

Michael’s attention is suddenly dead-set. “Movie business?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “It’s not the American Dream, but it pays well, and hey – it can be really fun sometimes, so I’ll certainly take it.”

Michael clears his throat. “What, uh, what sort of movies?”

“Mostly shitty action stuff,” Brian smiles, “you know ‘The Man Who Wouldn’t Look Back’?”

Michael stares. “ _You_ wrote ‘The Man Who Wouldn’t Look Back’?!”

“Yeah, well, me and half a dozen other people, give or take. That’s usually how it is. But a few of my favorite lines made it in, so I can take a decent amount of credit. Why? Seen it?”

“ _’Seen it’_?” Michael exclaims. He just manages to reel it back. “Yeah, yeah I’ve seen it. Just a couple dozen times.”

“Oh yeah?” He actually looks kinda proud, which is a heck of a lot better than the judgmental look Michael was half expecting. 

“It’s actually one of my favorites,” Michael admits, brimming with open sincerity.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Brian smiles. “Honestly, that’s always a real nice thing to hear.”

“Pancakes,” CJ’s gruff voice sounds, sliding the plate down in front of him. 

Michael blinks. “Thanks.” He’d completely forgotten he’d even ordered them.

He uncurls his paper napkin, pulling out a fork and looking down at what look like pretty damn good pancakes, with a whole little pitcher of _real_ syrup next to them.

“Well,” Brian says taking another bite himself. “I’ve got to say it’s good to meet you, Michael.”

“Yeah,” Michael pulls a small smile. “Yeah. You too.” He smirks back at his plate as he carves off a large bite, sending the syrup cascading down into the cushiony dough. “No friends” his ass.


	4. Chapter 4

“What the fuck happened to you yesterday?” Michael asks as Trevor shambles into the kitchen.

Trevor hits one of the stools. It can’t be that late. The morning light seeping through the kitchen windows is just enough to blink at. 

He glances up at Michael with a smirk. “What? No apron?”

Michael frowns, that frustrated line he gets carving into his forehead. “You’re the housewife here, remember?”

“What crawled up your ass this morning?” Trevor asks, eyeing him as Michael gloomily pours out a cup of coffee for himself.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What? I wandered around. Like I _said_ I was going to.”

“Looking for the hidden entrance. And what’d you find?”

“Not much,” Trevor admits. 

“Big fucking surprise.”

“Hey,” Trevor snaps, “I said I was going to try, and that’s what I’m doing alright.”

“All night?” Michael asks skeptically.

“Yes all night, anyways, better than trying to sleep in here.”

“What the hell is wrong with sleeping in here?” Michael asks. He takes a sip of his coffee.

“It’s too quiet. Too big.” Trevor glares at him. “Not gonna ask if I want some?”

Michael holds his gaze with a small nasty smile. He doesn’t ask.

Trevor grumbles, pulling himself back up and rolling around the counter to grab his own damn mug. “You’re just packed full of sunshine this morning, huh?”

“Well sorry if I get a bit twitchy when you vanish for twenty fucking hours.”

“Timing it then? What? Concerned?” Trevor asks, pouring out his own coffee, the aromatic steam billowing refreshingly into his face.

“Yeah concerned. Concerned that our new neighbors will be a little curious as to why my damn housewife is wandering around in a graveyard, jimmying mausoleums open with crowbars at three in the fucking morning.”

“Please,” Trevor rolls his eyes, “even I am a little more subtle than that.”

“Yeah, subtle, you’re the model of subtlety. And what did you end up getting out of all this, huh? Not much.”

“Hey I check it out. Well as I could at least, and took a better walk around the town.”

“Anything promising even?”

“Jack-shit,” Trevor grumbles. “At least nothing I can see. There’s more places on the other side of that river of course, but I doubt anyone would have taken the time to tunnel under it. I also doubt that anyone would have tunneled very _far_ for something as lame as a secret entrance, so that leaves pretty much the square and the surrounding area. I made it into a few of those old tombs, but there’s nothing I can see, but who knows what’s buried, and I can’t exactly go digging up corpses.”

“Glad you’ve got that much sensibility,” Michael says.

“ _As I was saying_ ,” Trevor continues firmly, “I checked out around that park. The fucking gazebo seemed a good fit but nothing under there. So my bet by now is that it’s in one of the basements, one of the places around the square.”

“Yeah that seems fair enough,” Michael agrees.

“What about you then?” Trevor asks.

“What about me?”

“How’d your little breakfast date go?”

“Less awkward than it could have been after you fucked off,” Michael says.

“Look, I’ll do what I can here Mikey alright, but sitting around with douchebags making small talk about the fucking weather pushes it a little too far. I don’t exactly have the patience of a fucking saint.”

“You don’t have the patience of a fucking housefly,” Michael says.

“ _You_ didn’t answer the question.”

“It went good actually, and I don’t know who you’re calling a douchebag, he’s actually a decent guy.”

“Making friends?” Trevor teases.

“ _Yes_ , actually, shocking as that might be to you,” Michael continues, “ _and_ helpful fucking friends, which is more than I can say for whatever mess you ran into in a graveyard at 5AM.”

“Oh yeah? Helpful? Helpful how? Pouring even more bullshit and ego into your coffee?”

“Actually,” Trevor sees Michael hesitate, as if he’s going to tell him something then stops himself. “He’s got a professional interest in all the local shit that goes on around here.”

“That so? What is he? A fucking peeper?”

“ _No_ , christ,” Michael continues. “He’s a writer actually.”

“Ooooh,” Trevor smiles sickly, “just like _you_.”

“Yeah,” Michael grumbles, “just like me.”

“Well you must have had _so much_ to talk about! Did he want to read your latest manuscript? Maybe you two can go to a coffeeshop and bitch about the color of fucking sand or some shit?”

“Hey, it’s _useful_ ,” Michael insists, “writers notice shit, alright, they can’t help it. It’s how their brains work. So he’s noticed shit, which is a decent place to start.”

“Oh yeah? Then did your little brother-in-arms result in any leads?” Trevor presses.

Michael looks down at his coffee. “I didn’t push it.”

“Oh, you didn’t push it, well isn’t that fucking considerate.”

“Hey! We’ve got plenty of time here, I’m not going to blow this by sitting down to a coffee ‘oh by the way, hear of any secret entrances into your local branch lately’.”

“Bullshit. You’re just enjoying your little vacation here. I’m sure you’d be perfectly fucking happy to spin out this trip to suburban fantasy land as long as you can.”

“ _I_ want to do the job right, got that? And it doesn’t matter if it takes a little more time. Time’s what we have fucking plenty of right now.”

“Fine, _fine_ ,” Trevor groans. He glances outside the window. At least today the weather has the decency enough to throw couple of clouds around the sky. It looks like it’s going to be one of those days that can’t quite seem to make up its mind whether or not it wants to grey up or shine out.

“Well, then what?” He asks finally.

Michael shrugs. “What?”

“What now?”

Michael shrugs. “What we’ve been doing.”

Trevor shakes his head. So, this is what he’s going to be in for, this for the next two damn months. _Idleness_ , just seeping out of the floorboards and leaking into everything with an oozing smell of pine and fucking gingerbread.

“Fine,” Trevor calls suddenly, finishing his coffee. “Then let’s do that walk.”

“What walk? What we did yesterday?”

“Yeah, why the fuck not? Isn’t that what people with absolutely nothing fucking better to do get up to? The same damn shit every day. The _routine_ of the riveting damn lives they lead.”

Michael shrugs. “Yeah, I mean, I guess.”

“Then let’s fucking go.”

It’s colder than yesterday, and it must be a weekend, because there’s more people out now than there were the day before. He was never that good at keeping track of the days of the week. At least not when he wasn’t running a job or keeping track of flight schedules. On the way to the old mill they pass at least two or three other neat and tidy sets of shiny faces. It’s actually entertaining trying to predict the reactions. Here comes a couple now, two of them, side-by-side, thirty-somethings, with one of those things on wheels you strap kids into being pushed ahead in front of them. They look straight-laced, hair neat and tidy and expressions just a little worn with stress. He’s betting the brush off. Definitely. 

Trevor gives them a big open smile. “Morning’!” Two very pursed smiles flash at him for just a second before the concern settles right back in and they walk past him and Michael faster than they had come towards them.

“Christ,” Michael swears under his breath. “Do you _have_ to do that?”

“Just being _friendly_ , Michael, jesus, isn’t that the whole point?”

“Yeah, well you friendly kinda feels like a weasel selling value meals to chickens, alright?”

“Ah that’s just your cynical nature.”

“My fucking cynical nature that knows you too well.”

Trevor frowns back to the path ahead. “Yeah well, no one here ‘knows me’, so just relax alright.”

The river looks cold and dark as it runs past the park, sliding along past the worn rocks and errantly eroded banks. Trevor leans back and gives a good spit, watching it arch neatly before plopping into the water. There are a few birds out, their distant cries sounding every now and again. Sounds like less than there were yesterday. Might be the cold. 

“Come the fuck on,” Michael grumbles. They head up the rest of the path, and to Trevor’s mild surprise Michael drops right down into the same bench they sat at yesterday, staring back at the bank.

Trevor follows suit, letting his arms drape over the hard wooden back of the thing. “Well.”

“Yeah,” Michael agrees.

“So,” Trevor continues, “you’re really fine with this being the next _two fucking months_ of our lives?” 

“As long as you don’t keep running your damn mouth, I am.”

“Well someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning!” Trevor says. “Which is what by the way? We’re still not aligned on that one if anyone asks.”

He sees Michael smile slightly. “No one’s going to fucking ask.”

Trevor frowns. Michael’s ears are red on the ends. His hair’s too short to come even close to covering them.

“You’re cold,” Trevor says suddenly, accusingly.

“I’m fucking fine,” Michael says, crossing his arms tighter across his chest. 

“Why don’t you wear a fucking hat, huh? How hard is that?”

“Why don’t you fuck off, huh? How hard is that?”

Trevor makes a slightly mocking sound under his breath. “Fine, freeze your ass off for all I care. Not like you don’t have any to spare.”

“Hey,” Michael says suddenly. He’s looking across the street. Trevor follows his gaze.

There’s a man on his way to the bank. Trevor recognizes him. He doesn’t have quite the eye for faces that Michael does, but some faces just tend to stick, especially a face like the one that’s look at him exactly like that one is right now.

It’s the guy from the diner yesterday, the one with the head like a brick and an expression not much better. He looks as though he was on his way into the bank, but he’s slowed, slowed enough to give them a very distinct and very strong expression that reminds Trevor of how his mom used to look fishing dead raccoons out from under the trailer.

“Mmm, isn’t that nice?” Trevor grimaces.

The guy holds their eyes, and then, with a very slow and decisive motion, spits in their direction.

Trevor instantly moves to stand up. Michael’s hand grabs his arm firmly, holding him down. “Let it the fuck go,” he grumbles.

“Bullshit let it the fuck go!” Trevor snarls back.

“There’s no point.”

“There’s plenty of fucking point. Like how fucking good it’s gonna feel to introduce his face to that lamppost.”

Michael suddenly looks him dead in the eyes. “Let it go, T.”

Trevor feels his shoulders loosen. He leans back into the bench as the guy gives a small nasty sort of sniff and heads inside the bank.

“Fucker,” Trevor growls into his collar.

“Yeah, well, not a huge fucking surprise, huh?”

“Like that’s a fucking excuse.”

Michael’s attention suddenly shifts. “Holy shit,” he says slowly, “take a look at this.”

Trevor follows the gaze. Prancing through the center of the green is a small elderly man with a shock of white hair, a neat little cane, and a maroon tweed jacket buttoned up to the neck.

“ _That_ ,” Trevor says proudly, “is my new friend.”

Michael smiles. “No shit.”

“No shit,” Trevor confirms. And suddenly to his own fucking shock he’s waving, hard enough and big enough that Mister John Fontaine can see from well across the street.

The little man slows, peering in confusion and then suddenly returns the wave with even more enthusiasm.

Trevor stands up. “I’m going over there.”

Michael blinks up at him. “What?”

“I’m gonna go ‘make nice’, that’s the point right?”

Michael hesitates. “Uh, yeah, guess so. So what? I’m just gonna sit here alone like some asshole?”

“How about you go make your own friends? If you’re _so_ good at it.”

Michael considers. “Guess I could go back to that diner again. Do a bit more digging.”

“Fucking genius. What an idea.”

“Alright jackass,” Michael grumbles, standing, “I’ll walk you the fuck over there, how’s that?”

“What a gentleman.”

John Fontaine is already hurrying to meet them, closing the distance just as they cross onto the green.

“Hello, hello, _hello_ ,” he exclaims, bubbling with warmth and catching Trevor’s tattooed hand in his. “Isn’t this a just _wonderful_ surprise.”

“Damn straight,” Trevor answers.

“And goodness I am devilishly rude, who might you be?” he asks, suddenly eyeing Michael. 

“Michael,” Michael says offering a hand with that damn smile he always uses when he’s meeting people he could use for the first time: all warm and soft on the sides in a way that almost takes the mean out of his face. It’s ridiculous how well it works.

“Oh of course,” John says, letting go of Michael’s hand as a sudden wariness passes behind his eyes, followed instantly by a short flutter of self-awareness, as if even he is realizing that “of course” isn’t necessarily the most normal response to something like that. Not that Trevor’s surprised. Small town that it fucking is.

“My, my, but it is a pleasure,” Mister Fontaine recovers, “a true _pleasure_. How are you all this morning?”

“Not so bad,” Michael shrugs. 

“Enjoying the morning air?” John suggests.

“Oh yeah,” Trevor returns, “it’s a damn treat.”

“Quite,” John smiles. There’s something obviously a little uncomfortable in his expression. Trevor’s tempted to spin it, maybe slip an arm under Michael’s just to see what would happen, but he can see Michael shifting his weight next to him.

“Hey Johnny,” Trevor declares suddenly.

The little man’s speckled gaze shifts up to him, repeating the word as if it were utterly alien. “‘Hey’ what?”

“How about that cider?”

The man blinks in confusion for a moment and then his face lights up. “Oh! Oh, that’s right, my goodness. Well… I do admit I was going there just now. Oh yes, yes do join me. It would be a pleasure.” He glances uneasily at Michael. “Um, both of you, of course you’re both welcome.”

“No, no,” Michael insists, “you go. I was gonna meet someone for coffee over at CJ’s anyways.”

“Oh, were you?” John says, his little face screwing up under his rounded brightly framed glasses slightly. “I cannot tolerate the place myself - gracious, that is wicked of me - I mean to say, it’s fine, lovely for some, and of course each of us has his own tastes, but that woman’s temperament does set me rather on edge.”

Trevor can see Michael eyeing him, probably wondering if a grumpy middle-aged diner runner sets John Fontaine ‘on edge’ what the hell he could find so apparently interesting about Trevor’s attitude.

“See you in a bit,” Trevor says meaningfully.

Michael gives him half a look. “Yeah, right, see yah.” And turns back up the path.

John looks after him, frowning with a sort of confused expression and looking back to Trevor. “I hope… I do hope I didn’t make you feel too, well, _self conscious_.”

“What’s that?” Trevor asks. He can’t actually remember the last time anyone accusing him of having any sort of conscience.

“I just mean, well, when my wife leaves to go to the shops or for a drive, I always give her a peck on the cheek and I know that I might have, well… goodness, it doesn’t matter does it?”

Trevor smiles down at the little man’s fluttering nerves. “Doesn’t fucking matter at all.”

The man’s cheeks flush in excitement suddenly, and Trevor’s suddenly reminded of those old drawings he’d seen in old people’s places, little kids from before they look photographs, looking like they did something wrong and enjoyed the hell out of it.

“Come along then,” John Fontaine smiles, heading with his neat little pace across the street.

The bakery sits on the same side of the green as the diner, right in the middle, squished between an little old bookshop and what looks like the kind of place where people buy crap like candle holders shaped like cats and soaps that smell like high priced hookers. 

John Fontaine pushes the bakery door open with a honest-to-god merry-as-hell sing-song: “Good Morning!” to whomever the hell happened to be inside.

Trevor saunters in after him, and instantly the smell of fresh bread, doughnut glaze, and cider almost knocks him on his ass.

“Holy hell,” he says.

“Isn’t it just _wonderful_ ,” John beams, scurrying up the the counter. 

“Cozy” takes on a whole new meaning inside of this place. Maybe if cozy got knocked up and had a whole litter of kitten cozy that would fit it. It sort of looks like the type of place a fairy would barf out to grant some little old lady’s wishes. And hey, maybe John Fontaine had been just that lucky. 

It’s small and close, warm from the ovens and probably the damn chipper nature of the whole place kicks off it’s own heat signature. There are little booths lining the walls, small enough to just fit two people with high backs and yellow cushion and wildflowers carves all along the wooden sides and tops. A few spindly white tables and chairs that look like the type of things people sit in to drink tea with your pinky out. An old looking display case takes up the far side, _packed_ with pastries and cookies and breads and all manner of sugary, yeasty, frilly garbage, most of which Trevor couldn’t even guess the name of.

John Fontaine’s fingers are dancing delightedly on his cane as a man, the baker, comes around the counter. He’s not exactly what Trevor was expecting. At all. If Trevor had been placing bets on the owner of this establishment ten seconds ago, he might have gone with a fairy-godmother sort of biddy, looking like she tripped and fell on her ass right off of a book cover. Instead, what he’s looking at is some guy taller than him and almost as bulky and strong looking as Michael, with bright red hair and a spattering of freckles across his ruddy face. He doesn’t look even that much older than Trevor either, and is in possession of a nuclear powered smile filled with teeth blindingly white and straight as a ruler.

“Morning John!” the man beams, and even his voice is surprising, hardy as hell, and suddenly Trevor’s wondering if this guy somehow fell through some time warp. Maybe this is what all bakers were like five hundred years ago, getting ripped loading ovens by lifting with twenty heavy loaves of damn rye all day as wood ovens weathered and tanned their faces.

“Good morning Willem!” John answers delightedly. “My young friend and myself would love two of your most _bold_ ciders.”

Trevor’s never heard anyone call a drink _bold_ , before. Much less anything with a cinnamon stick floating in it.

“And whatever else you’d like of course,” John says to Trevor.

Trevor glances down at the glass case. It’s complete overwhelming. The entire thing looks like one mass of twisted pastry necks, dollops of whipped cream , sprinkles of chocolate, and twists of lemon.

“Uh,” he manages. He looks up. “Got pie?”

Mister Hardy-Fuck-the-Baker smiles back at him. “Sure we got pie. Got a preference?”

“Whatever,” Trevor answers shortly.

“Make a mean pecan,” the man brags proudly. Proudly. Actually proud of a damn pie.

“Sure, pecan,” Trevor answers.

“Alright, coming’ right up!” Willem ducks behind the counter again to get what they’ve asked for.

“Come along, let’s sit down,” John presses, moving across the floor.

“Don’t, uh, you have to pay?”

“Oh, Willem will bring it to the table, not to worry,” John continues. He slides himself into one of the close little booths and Trevor has no choice but to slide on in after him.

All around, pretty interesting scene he’s wound up in here. Little John Fontaine cleaning his glasses with rigorous anticipation on a little lavender bit of cloth he pulled out of his pocket, that lumberjack of a fucking baker whistling behind the counter. Hell, all considered, it’s lot more interesting than shoving behind some noisy diner counter listening to an artsy fart wax on about Inspiration or an Ineffectual Sexual History, whatever the hell it was writers talked about.

“Here you go, John,” Willem’s voice calls suddenly, sliding down two big fat mugs that smell like an apple tree fucked a spice rack. A big slice of pie covered in whipped cream hits the table to follow.

“Thank _you_ ,” John exclaims, “utterly perfect!” 

“Yeah, thanks,” Trevor says gruffly.

William places a fork and napkin down in front of him and Trevor’s attention swivels.

“Funny burn you got there, Will.”

The man freezes, and something suddenly flashes behind his eyes. It’s hardly for a moment, but Trevor notices all the same, then the big smile is right back where it was before.

“What? Oh yeah, that old thing, hell I forget it’s there most of the time.” He instantly moves his hand away.

“Goodness but your keen - what burn is that Willem?” John asks, interest piqued.

“Oh, it’s nothing really,” Willem answers. He’s flexing his hand awkwardly now behind his back. Trevor watches him steadily.

“Go on, let’s see,” John insists, and Willem has no choice. He holds it out a little to satisfy the old man’s keen interest. “Oh my yes, very interesting!” 

There’s a neat little burn in the middle of Willem’s hand. And now that he’s hold it steady, Trevor thinks it might look a little bit like a type-written “S”. 

“How did that happen?” John asks.

“Oh just being stupid, left something on the stove and forgot it was hot. Probably have half a dozen of those by now,” Willem says vaguely. “Enjoy the cider!” and with that he’s gone.

“You’ve got quite good eyes, don’t you my boy?” John asks with hint of a sly smile.

“They do me alright,” Trevor answers.

“Well,” John says, eyes focused with eager intensity.

Trevor blinks back. “Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to try your cider?”

Trevor tries to suppress the inherent suspicion that comes with anyone taking that keen of an interest waiting for him to take an offered drink, and lifts his mug. It’s still hot enough to burn his hands if he holds it too long, but he blows on it, navigates the twist of lemon and spring of cinnamon to the opposite side of the mug and takes a sip.

“Well? What do you think?” John asks.

Trevor smacks his lips. “Tastes like God’s piss in autumn.”

John let’s out a short cry of delighted deviance. “Oh my goodness, you are truly too wicked, I’m sure.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Trevor grins back.

He decides suddenly and fiercely that he likes this weird little old man. The guy doesn’t seem to give half a fuck or even a quarter of a fuck what the rest of the world thinks if he walks down some country street done up to the fucking nines, or if he brings creepy looking strangers into bakeries and treats them to cider. There’s something honest to god endearing about that. Maybe it’s just the inner weirdo in himself answering the cry. Either way, he realizes with an amused sort of warmth he’s actually enjoying himself.

“Married John?” he hears himself ask.

“Oh yes, quite so,” John answers. “My dear Blanche. She runs the little antique shop up behind the square, across from the inn.”

“And how long you been around here?”

“Oh, let me see now. Strange, it must be since I retired. We used to live down in the city. I worked as a consultant for a number of preservation societies in those days, but we’d always enjoy our occasional weekends here, and when my eyesight became a little too tired for the more precise antiquities, we thought this would be just the best place to simply settle down and enjoy whatever it is we have left.”

It’s just like he’d told Michael. People don’t come here to live - they come here to die.

“And I’m afraid I must apologize,” John says, expression suddenly shifting with a slight tinge of shame. He pulls his mug up into both hands taking a small sip. “I do believe I was a little rude to your… well I’m not sure what you’d prefer as a title—“

Trevor suddenly realizes he doesn’t know what he’d prefer himself. “Partner?” he tries. It’s actually what he says most of the time anyways. Conveniently enough.

“Oh yes, that’s the word,” John stumbles. “I’m sorry that you both took me by surprise. Of course I realized that you, that you both, well, let’s just say that town has been all twitter with the news of a new, well, _couple_.”

“Not that big of a surprise,” Trevor says, thinking that John Fontaine might be the only person within ten miles capable of being truly “all atwitter”.

“Yes, but, well, I do feel as though I made a bit of an _ass_ out of myself. You see I didn’t exactly expect…” He trails off uncertainly.

“Expect what?” Trevor presses.

“Well, he’s rather a striking, strapping sort of figure isn’t he? I mean it’s not what you’d… expect.”

Trevor snorts into his cider smothering the all too easy observation that Mr. John Fontaine isn’t exactly the type of person you’d expect to go around talking about his _wife_ either. “What’s so ’striking’?” Trevor asks instead.

“Oh well, you’re both just so… well, I’m afraid I’m showing my own ignorance, but well, _masculine_ looking. Again you must forgive me. But your, what was his name again? Michael! That’s it, again I apologize, but he has an almost _On the Waterfront_ Brando like visage. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I might if I knew what the hell that was,” Trevor says.

“Oh well, again, I don’t mean to ramble on and further show my own ignorance. I just mean to apologize.”

“Don’t know if you need to. Could be worse,” Trevor shrugs. 

John Fontaine’s attention suddenly narrows. “Has it been?”

Trevor looks back at him. “Eh, not really. Well, there is one idiot-looking-fuck who seems ready to give some trouble.”

“And who might that be?”

“Don’t know his name. Looks like someone stuck legs on a cinderblock. Stupid sorta face. Short brown hair. Wears some sort of canvas vest thing, looks like a fishing vest with less pockets.”

“Rather… flat nose?” John Fontaine presses delicately.

“Yeah I guess.”

“Sounds rather like Kurt Rogers. I’m afraid he and a handful of his friends tend to find themselves trouble every now and again.”

“The law sort of trouble?” Trevor asks.

“Oh, goodness no,” John answers. “There’s very little of that around here. We don’t even have a police station.”

Trevor raises an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

“No, no, we’re far too small for that. But the local game warden is always calling them out for poaching and the like. I’m afraid some of the ‘local color’ around these parts finds shooting things to be the only viable form of amusement.”

“Hey,” Trevor takes another sip. The stuff’s growing on him, which is good cause he’ll probably be smelling it in his mustache for the rest of the day. “It’s not a bad one.”

“Goodness,” John shivers, “I’m afraid I’ve never been too keen on weapons, they do make me rather uncomfortable.”

Trevor smiles. “You get used to it.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what I’ve heard, but I’d rather not get used to it, if you understand.”

Trevor shrugs. “Potato, po-tat-o.”

“Now, how are you enjoying your new home?” John presses on. “I understand you’re living in poor old Barnaby’s house. Is that right?”

“Pretty efficient local news channels around here, huh?”

“As I said,” John says with a small smile and a little shake of his head, “people will latch onto such things.”

“Well that’s right. Ol’ Barnaby’s.” Trevor finds himself shifting in his seat. “Why? D’you know him?”

“Oh my yes!” John exclaims.

“Suppose in this place most everybody knows everybody, huh?”

“Yes, well, I did know him more than most.”

“How’s that?”

“He was a member of the Preservation Society! One of our small but dedicated gathering.”

Trevor tries to shrug off how much that sounds like the type of club that gathers round throwing chunks of hair in a fire and chanting. “And what’s that?” he asks.

“Well, it’s a group dedicated to preserving the historical value of the local community and its structures. It’s myself, as the president and chair of course, given my experience. Blanche as well, as she is rather an amateur aficionado, and such groups are best served by local enthusiasm, and that is what Lauren and Barnaby were able to provide.”

“Who and Barnaby?”

“Oh Lauren Turner!” John says. “She runs the lovely little inn just up that road there. Have you seen it yet?”

“Nope,” Trevor shrugs, “guess we haven’t had much time to look around considering we’ve been here less than seventy-two hours.”

“Goodness of course, I do apologize,” John hurries. “I only assumed since it is how Blanche and I fell utterly in love with this place. It’s such a lovely inn, and Lauren puts so much energy and care into the place it isn’t surprising how well turned out it is.”

“Yeah?” Trevor takes a big bite of the pie. It’s fucking amazing. Far fucking better than he was expecting. There isn’t even a bit of that plastic freezer stored tinge to it. “So, she and Barnaby were close?”

“Oh, very,” John confirms. “In fact I believe that she may have been his closest friend in the town.”

And there it is. Trevor smiles into his pie. Just two days and he’s got a better lead than anything Michael would be likely to dig up.

“It’s such a shame that she had to deal with that trouble a few years ago… everyone does talk so,” John continues to amble idly.

Trevor glances up. “What trouble.”

“Oh, it’s nothing really.” He seems to catch himself. “Really just gossip, and I’m sure you know how that sort of thing can be in a town like this one, but things are much better off now. And you can see how well her son Toby is doing now that it’s… been sometime. He’s been waiting tables all this year at the diner, have you seen him there?”

“No,” Trevor says flatly.

“Oh yes, of course, you really haven’t been here long at all. I am sorry it’s just in a place such as this, you often assume that everyone simply knows everybody and everything.”

“Yeah,” Trevor agrees. “I’m getting that.”

“You’re getting there I suppose,” John smiles. “And tell me, are you looking forward to next week?”

“Next week?”

“Our _Ghost Walk_ , my young man!”

“Oh yeah. I’m on pins and needles.”

“Well good! I have to admit that I am rather giddy myself. It is one of my favorite events of the year to organize and I do believe, with your generous help, that this year will be even better than ever! I am quite close to fully restoring your costume and then you will be Ready For Action, so to speak.”

Trevor grins. “Can’t wait.”

He waits for Michael on one of the benches in the town green, golden and fiery leaves underfoot, watching as people wander past. He takes the chance to get a good look at the rest of the buildings that surround the square. The north side is lined up all straight and tidy, the diner, the bullshit gift shop, the bakery, the bookstore, the… he narrows his eyes- “Bleekers” the sigh reads- shit, must be a bar - that deserves some more attention for sure, and finally the big old marble bank. Then on the east side is the river with the tinier green and the old mill trundling along. Around the next corner the graveyard and the church, and next to that a little country store and another shop with a sign “Junco” hanging outside. Tight-ass Tim Thread’s if he’s remembering right. Then right back around to the west there’s a little pizza place, what looks like a decent sized hardware store, another little shop, this one looks like a fancier clothes sort of place, and finally a library tied right to a post-office. All the damn essentials. Perfect little American paradise. 

“Hey,” Michael’s voice calls next to him.

Trevor shakes his head. “I still can’t believe this place.”

“Yeah well you’d better start getting used to it. You’re gonna have to eventually.”

“Doubt it,” Trevor snorts. He stands and they start to cross the park. “How’d you do? Meet your little buddy, enjoy some pancakes and pretentious?”

“Yes actually, _and_ got a few bits of local dope. How about you?”

“Mm, could say about the same.”

“Well go ahead, enlighten me.”

“Looks like Mister Barnaby had a hard-on for some historical preservation shit, which when you really think people here must come up with the dullest damn shit to do with there time, really blows it out of the water. There’s a group, one woman in particular he could have told this crappy little town secret to.”

“Hey, that’s not bad,” Michael says, genuinely almost impressed.

Trevor can’t help feeling a little glow of pride. “I said I’d fucking try.”

“Yeah,” Michael admits with a small smile. “Yeah you did.”

“Well, how about you? What’d that guy pull out of his ass besides his own fucking dick?”

“Not much honestly,” Michael admits. “Apparently we’re actually the _second_ of interesting newcomers in Littleton. There’s a new priest, minister, whatever. They haven’t had one for a year and a new one showed up two weeks before us.”

“Riveting,” Trevor says.

“Yeah, that would be pushing it. But it is a bit… weird.”

“What? Outside of the usual way?”

“What usual way?”

“Someone spending their whole life fondling some dude on a crosses’ balls.”

“Yeah, cause that’s exactly what they do all day.”

“Might as well be,” Trevor sniffs.

“This guy’s young,” Michael clarifies. “Like mid-twenties or something, which is a bit weird. Brian said he can’t remember the last time he saw a priest under forty and I’ve got to agree. And he wasn’t sent or anything, apparently picked out the place on his own.”

“And why wouldn’t he?” Trevor sneers. “Such a lovely little community.”

“Hey, you asked what I heard so I told you, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah alright.”

Suddenly, there’s a soft sound of something metallic falling off to their left. Michael ignores it, but Trevor narrows his eyes in the direction of the noise. Sounded like it came from the excuse for an alley between the pizza place and the hardware store.

He sees what it is. He stops. “Hey,” he calls to Michael, “take a look at this.”

Michael stops and follows his look.

There are kids in the alley. Three of them. Two of them look older, and a good deal bigger than the third. They’ve got the combo of bad haircuts and camp-hunting-jackets that screams a very specific type of repressed anger that Trevor’s all too familiar with.

They’ve knocked over a metal trashcan and the third kid is staring up at them. He’s smaller, if Trevor had to guess at least three years younger, and glaring up at the two others with such a hard set rage that Trevor can almost feel the tightness of his small fists at his sides. The anger stands out a mile away, that and the fact that the kid is black. Littleton isn’t exactly a cultural fucking epicenter. In fact Trevor thinks he’s the first black kid he’s seen since they were six damn hours out. 

The two other boys do not look angry. They look amused, in a hungry sort of way. It’s an expression as old as fucking dirt, the expression that knows you’ve got something weaker than you and there isn’t a single fucking thing that something going to be able to do about it.

“Just kids,” Michael shrugs. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Nah, nah hold on,” Trevor says. “I wanna see this.”

“God, you’re sick you know that?”

Trevor ignores him. The big kids are saying something to the littler one. Trevor’s too far away to hear, but suddenly the black kid is swinging his tight little fist into the nearest one’s gut. The camp-jacket gasps, grabbing his stomach, and doubling over.

Michael lets out a little impressed huff next to him.

The victory doesn’t last long. The other big one snatches the kid’s jacket lifting him off the ground. The kid kicks and flails, managing to land a few good ones, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. All the same, he’s obviously not giving up, even when the bigger kid slams him into the wall of the hardware store. The kid he landed the first punch on is standing up again, straightening with a fresh anger, and suddenly Trevor’s moving towards them.

“Whoa, hey!” Michael calls, but he’s already across the road.

Trevor steps into the alley. “Hey, go on. Fuck off.”

The two kids look back at him with small unimpressed eyes. They’re older than he thought from a distance. Maybe fifteen or sixteen. The black kid looks back at him furiously, squirming against the larger kid’s grasp. One side of his face is swollen and he’s got a broken lip. He must have gotten hit before they started looking. Maybe that’s what knocked over the trashcan.

“Why don’t you fuck off?” one of the kids says, the slightly thinner taller one with dirty blonde hair. He eyes Trevor’s facial hair with a nasty grin. “Pubestache.”

Trevor pulls his own lips into the same exact smile. Well, it might have been the same smile, if he hadn’t had much _much_ more practice with it. The effect of just that smile is immediate. He can see the kid hesitate on a step backwards. 

Trevor pulls the grin wider. “You’re gonna fuck off, cause if you don’t I’m gonna slice your faces off real slow, switch ‘em around, and tie you goddamn trailer-trash, shit-filled intestines together in a nice juicy bow. And when they find you like that in this goddamn alley, your fuck-faced inbred parents won’t be able to remember you any other way than knitted together like the top selling attraction in hell’s freak-show, got it?”

The color drains from the boys’ faces. The one holding the kid’s hand loosens and the boy slips back down the wall to the ground. Trevor holds their looks for a second longer and then snaps into motion, barking like a rabid dog right into their faces. 

 

That does it. They’re gone, around the back of the building, without so much as a yell.

“Shit-stains,” Trevor grumbles.

He glances down. The kid is staring back up at him, face still locked in a determined mask of anger.

“What?” Trevor asks shortly.

“That was fucked up, man.”

Trevor smiles. “Is that a ‘thank you’?”

“Bullshit that’s a thank you!” the kid says.

Trevor raises an eyebrow. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to know that was some dark shit.”

“You got a pretty good mouth on you for a kid.”

“You got a pretty fucked mouth on your for a damn human being.”

Michael jogs up behind them. “What the hell did you do?”

“Nothin’,” Trevor says. 

Michael looks unconvinced. He glances at the kid. “You okay?”

“Yeah, shit, I’m fine.”

Michael frowns. “How old are you?”

The kid groans, pushing his way past them back onto the street.

“You sure you’re good kid?” Trevor asks. “Got a pretty nice shiner there.”

“Had worse,” the kid says, heading towards the street.

“You know, you’re seeming pretty ungrateful for someone who was about to get their ass kicked,” Trevor calls after him.

“Fine, thanks, whatever,” the kid mutters, “not like I fucking asked,” and with that he’s across the street.

Trevor watches with an amused expression as the kid vanishes into the park. “Cute kid.”

“Yeah,” Michael agrees. “Real fucking peach.”


End file.
